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Steadily She Probed His Face, and Slowly She 

Nodded 





Cat O’ Mountain 


BY 

ARTHUR O. FRIEL / 

n 

Author of 

‘‘ King — of Kearsarge ” 




Illustrated by 

DONALD S. HUMPHREYS ■ 


> 5 

J ) > 


THE PENN PUBLISHING 
COMPANY PHILADELPHIA 

1923 



pq 155 

Cx 


COPYRIGHT 
1923 BY 
THE PENN 
PUBLISHING 
COMPANY 



Cat-o’-Mountain 


Made in the U. S. A. 


N 20 ’23 ■ 


•H 



©C1A705S83 






JAMES and CAR OLINE MACK 

whose unfailing kindliness 
to the mysterious prowler of 
The Traps 

will long he remembered by 
“ The Detective ” 











FOREWORD 


At the northern end of the Shawangunk range lies 
a region where the Maker of Mountains went mad. 

Into his new-laid rock the giant crashed his huge 
hammer, smashing asunder his handiwork, gouging 
out chasms, splitting it into fissure and cavern and 
abyss, slashing its eastern edge into a frowning preci¬ 
pice. When he had gone, up into some of his hammer- 
scars welled subterranean waters, forming crag-bound 
lakes hundreds of feet higher than the rugged valley 
floor. Other chasms became gulfs of verdure, 
crammed with a veritable jungle of hardwoods and 
evergreens. And there, in the labyrinth of tree and 
bowlder, fierce brutes and venomous snakes bred and 
fought and slew. It was the home of the wolf, the 
panther, and the bear; of the rattlesnake and the cop¬ 
perhead. 

Then came men: savages who killed and ate the 
wild beasts and clothed themselves in their furry hides. 
Through the gorges and down the slopes they laid their 
trails, along which they roved for centuries in hunt 
and tribal war. At length they paused, staring east¬ 
ward at new fires burning below them—the fires of 
white men. 

The inevitable followed. First by firewater, then by 
firearms, the Dutch settlers crowded the tawny 


6 


FOREWORD 


** duyvils ” out of the forested lowlands between the 
river of Hendrick Hudson and the mountain wall. 
But behind that wall, in the natural stronghold created 
by the mad Mountain-Maker, the red men long held 
their own. More, at times they swooped out from the 
one small gap in the cliffs on bloody raids. And when 
the vengeful whites retaliated with invasions of their 
fastness, they ambushed those palefaces along their 
trails. 

Then the settlers ended it. Trapped again and again 
within that gulf, they in turn became the trappers. 
Stealthily moving in force, they garrisoned the heights 
of Mohonk and Minnewaska; they outwitted, out¬ 
manoeuvred, outambushed the Indians; they herded 
them back against their own precipices, cornered them 
among their own bowlders, slew them without mercy. 
Returning to their lowland farms, they left behind 
them a silent, blood-spattered, death-strewn hole in the 
hills which henceforth—because of its traps and 
countertraps—was to be known as The Traps. 

Long afterward, men came in again; white men, 
and red men too, no longer foes. They cleared little 
farms, brought in their women, intermarried and in¬ 
terbred, led such primitive existences as might have 
been expected. Dwelling in their own little world, 
they followed their own inclinations in such matters 
as mating and hunting and drinking—and thereby 
achieved a reputation somewhat dubious. The tongue- 
wagging folk outside declared the Trapsmen were 
** wife-swappers and ‘‘ moonshiners and other 
things. And perhaps they were. 


FOREWORD 


7 


Rumor has asserted, too, that these men first settled 
that craggy hole not because they would but because 
they must; that the country outside was too hot'' 
for them; that they even had to obtain their wives by 
becoming squaw men or by the primeval custom of 
capture; and that for many years their land was dis¬ 
tinctly unsafe for any man not of their clan. This 
also may be true. Be that as it may, they lived hard 
lives, and many of them died hard deaths. Yet they 
lived as free men, untrammeled by slavish subservience 
to the myriad laws manufactured in the cities beyond 
them. 

But they, too, passed. As the bear and the wolf 
and the Indian faded out of that country after the 
coming of the white man, so the Trapsmen have al¬ 
most vanished before the encroachments of commer¬ 
cialism. Beside the upland lakes now rise those struc¬ 
tures from which the pioneer turns with loathing— 
summer hotels. Moreover, virtually all of the inter¬ 
vening Traps has been bought in by the hotel barons. 
The little homes of the vanished men are slowly rot¬ 
ting apart; their tiny fields and their hard-grown or¬ 
chards are going the way of the ancient Indian trails 
—disappearing into wilderness where snakes thrive 
unmolested. Few indeed are the people who now live 
in the mountain bowl; fewer still those who are native- 
born. The others are from outside. 

Yet there are, in the region round about, two or 
three old men—^taciturn, abrupt, whole-souled old fel¬ 
lows—who were born in the Traps and who will die 
not far from the Traps. From them, and from the 


8 


FOREWORD 


whispering ghosts which, by day and by dark, have 
drifted along beside me on the silent trails and talked 
to me in weird crevasse and uncanny old house, I have 
learned the tale which is here set down. It is a tale 
of Yesterday, in a land of Yesterday, chronicled by 
one who was there—yesterday. 


New York, 192^. 


A. O. F. 


CONTENTS 


I. 

The Panther 

• i 

13 

II. 

Nigger Nat^s Girl . 

• 

24 

III. 

Pipe-Smoke—AND Powder-Smoke 

35 

IV. 

The Fugitive . 


45 

V. 

Creeping Things 


56 

VI. 

The Knook-out . 


66 

VII. 

A Man Meets a Man 


76 

VIII. 

The Ha’nt .... 


87 

IX. 

Dalton^ s Death 


97 

X. 

A Scrap of Paper . 


108 

XL 

At the Bridge . 


119 

XII. 

The Law Comes 


129 

XIII. 

The Code of the Hills . 


139 

XIV. 

Cold Nerve 


150 

XV. 

Fire and Frost 


160 

XVI. 

The Moving Finger Writes 


172 

XVII. 

A Stab in the Night 


184 

XVIII. 

Hunters of Men 


195 

XIX. 

The Sun Breaks Through 


206 

XX. 

Liberty or Death . 


217 

XXI. 

The Hand of the Ghost 


229 

XXII. 

In the Shadows 


240 




CONTENTS 


10 

XXIII. The Demon op the Dark . . 251 

XXIY. Cross Trails. 262 

XXV. XiNETY-XiNE’s Mine . . . 272 

XXYI. Snake Strikes .... 284 

XXVII. Trapped. 293 

XXYIII. An Account is Closed . . 301 

XXIX. Out of the Past .... 311 
XXX. The Call of the South . . 322 



Cat-o’-Mountain 


CHAPTER I 

THE PANTHER 

High on the crags a panther screamed. 

Savage, sinister, yet appallingly human—like the 
malevolent squall of an infuriated hag—the cry tore 
through the night shadows whelming the mountain- 
girt gulf of the Traps. Among the gigantic bowlders 
and the uncanny crevasses of Dickie Barre it hurtled 
in a shattered wave of sound. Out across the dense 
tangle of underbrush and the lazy-creeping water of 
Coxing Hill it fled, freezing in their tracks the smaller 
brethren of the wild—fox and raccoon and rabbit and 
mink—which moved there in their furtive foraging. 
From the forested steeps of Mohonk and Millbrook 
it reverberated, and among those trees it was swal¬ 
lowed up. 

Again the malignant wail broke out; and now the 
beast which voiced it was not in the same spot as 
before. Somewhere on the very brink of the precipice 
of Dickie Barre the huge cat had been, and somewhere 
on that edge he still was. But he was moving, seeking 
a crack or crevice through which he might steal swiftly 
downward without hurling himself to death on the 

13 


14 


CAT-O^-MOUl^TAI]^ 


rubble of cliff-fragments below; and his failure to find 
it at once exasperated his ugly nature to its ugliest. 
His eyes told him something down there was moving. 
His nose said the thing was human, was hurt, was 
harmless. His fierce brain knew it would be an easy 
kill, and his ravening jaws slavered at the realization 
that after one rending attack he could gorge himself 
—on the tender flesh of a woman. 

Baffled, maddened, he screeched once more. Then 
he became silent. He had found something promising: 
not a direct line of descent, but a narrow shelf dipping 
diagonally down the face of the cliff. Along this he 
proceeded with swift, sure stealth. 

Then, down in the density behind him, a light shot 
out from between two towering bowlders. A clean, 
brilliant beam it was—the ray of a carbide camp-lamp. 
Its white sheen played up, down, right, left; and as it 
moved, the rock-masses and the trees and brush round 
about stood forth, then vanished again into the gloom. 
But it did not advance. Between those two colossal 
blocks it stayed, peering like a dazzling eye. 

All at once it jumped. From the chaos of chunks 
between silent cat and silent light, a voice had cried 
out. 

“Help! Oh—help!» 

It was a high, clear, penetrating call, with an under¬ 
note of terror and pain. 

Two voices answered: one, a ferine snarl from the 
merciless cat-creature beyond; the other, a quick re¬ 
sponse in the tones of a man. 

“ Right here! Where are you ? ” 


THE PAHTHER 15 

“ Here into the—the rocks! Oh, hurry up, before 
that critter gits to me! 

“ Coming! 

The glaring white eye moved forward in haste. 
Behind it, boots scraped and bumped on rock. It rose 
in a steep slant, slid suddenly down, accompanied by 
more scraping of boot-heels; disappeared between two 
blocks leaning together; emerged beyond, ascended 
again, wavering erratically with the strain of climbing 
a treacherous slope; halted at the peak of another 
bowlder and rapidly searched the surroundings. 

“ Can’t see you! ” the man panted. “ Speak up! ” 

“ Hold stiddy a minute! ” implored the other voice. 

I’m a-comin’—up this rock—if I don’t slip. Oh! ” 
The last was a choked moan. 

“ What’s the matter ? Hurt ? ” 

“ Ye-yes. But wait—I’m a-comin’-” 

The light quivered, as if the man behind it were 
impatient to leap forward. But it remained poised 
on its own bowlder, shooting at the upper edge of 
another mass of conglomerate beyond which the girlish 
voice had spoken. A few seconds later, atop that 
rough stone, something gUnted red-gold in the white 
glare. Under it rose wide gray eyes, a pale face— 
the eyes suddenly shut and the face shrank from the 
blinding beam. Again the gas ray lit up the glowing 
glory of the red hair. 

“ All right. Stick there,” commanded the man. A 
quick twist of the light—then another grind of sliding 
heels, terminating in a solid bump like the impact of a 
gun-butt against stone. The white eye now was swing- 



16 


CAT-O’-MOUNTAIN 


ing about at the base of the bowlder, hunting a way 
around the almost vertical block. A few seconds, and 
it began staggering over the smaller debris toward one 
corner. 

“ Oh—look out—here’s the critter now! ” 

With the warning came a swift scramble overhead. 
The light wheeled and revealed a girlish figure in a 
torn drab dress swinging itself out—slipping rapidly 
down—hanging by its hands from the upper edge. 

“ Hold hard! ” snapped the man. “ Don’t be silly— 
he’s a coward, like all cats. He’ll run if you say 
‘ boo.’ Hang tight a minute. Don’t drop.” 

But the girl, dangling with face turned upward and 
heels a yard or more above the jagged jumble below, 
sniifed scornfully at his assertion of knowledge. Be¬ 
fore he could make two steps toward her she let go. 
Down she darted in a grayish streak, and on the stones 
beneath she crumpled. 

One sharp moan of pain broke from her. Then, 
looking upward, she breathed: ** Look! ” 

The light switched up. From the edge above now 
protruded another head; a flat-nosed, fang-toothed, 
tawny visage whose eyes flamed green with ferocity 
and whose snarling jaws writhed in malignant menace. 

A startled grunt sounded behind the light. The 
white eye lifted, hung poised as if held by a hand 
grown rigid. Beside it, twin tubes of steel centered 
on that horrid head. 

Boomhoom! A double flash leaped thundering from 
the tubes. In a swirl of blue smoke the face of the 
great cat vanished. 


THE PAETHER 


17 


The light pitched backward, fell clattering on the 
rocks. A muffled impact and a sullen thwack of 
metal told that the man and his gun too had been 
knocked down by the recoil. Over behind the bowlder 
something else thudded softly and was still. 

But, though dropped, the lantern burned faithfully 
on. Its ray lit up a pair of high-laced boots, tan 
corduroys, and a hammerless shotgun sprawling on a 
slanting bowlder. A second later a broad hand 
swooped at it and righted it. The gun was lifted, 
broken at the breech, swiftly reloaded and snapped 
shut. Then the legs drew up and the light rose, dart¬ 
ing at the girl. 

She was huddled where she had dropped, but her 
pale face was alive and her gray eyes wide open. As 
the glare fell on her she threw up an arm to shield 
her dark-dilated pupils. Upon the tanned skin of that 
firm young forearm showed a long red gash. 

“Good Lord! You’re badly hurt!” exclaimed the 
man. 

The lips under the shadowing arm curved in a 
strained smile. 

“ ’Tain’t much,” she deprecated. “ I got a gouge 
when I tumbled. Guess you kilt Mister Catamount, 
or scairt him off anyway. They take a mighty lot of 
killin’ sometimes. Now can you git me down to where 
I can walk? My ankle’s hurt.” 

A quiet laugh of admiration came from the invisible 
man. 

“ You’re a plucky little lady,” he informed her. 
“ Most girls in your place would be fainting or going 


18 


CAT-O^-MOUJt^TAIN 


all to pieces. As for walking, I don’t know. This is 
a tough hole to navigate in after dark. But we’ll see.” 

The light moved toward her. As it advanced 
the man added in a chiding tone: You shouldn’t 
have dropped like that. No wonder your ankle’s 
hurt.” 

Is that so 1 What was I goin’ to do, Mister 
Smarty—let that critter claw me? And I hurt my 
leg an hour ago, not jest now. And I wish you’d look 
and see if the catamount’s alive yet. He’s been 
pesterin’ round here ’most a month, and you better 
kill him good and dead.” 

Oh, he’s dead enough-” 

You go and look! ” 

Again the quiet laugh sounded. 

“ Just as you say, my lady. I think I heard him fall 
over back there.” 

Once more the light turned. It wavered around 
the base of the bowlder, bobbed up and down among 
the jags and juts of the rock-heap, paused, swung 
slowly, came to rest on a furry huddle hanging limp 
over a misshapen stone. There dangled two powerful 
fore-legs, topped by massive shoulders, terminated by 
big paws. Between them hung a red ruin which had 
been a head. 

Whew I ” whistled the man, studying the size of the 
legs and the breadth of the back. ‘‘What a brute! 
Never knew they grew so big. Lucky he was close 
enough to take those charges before they could spread. 
Otherwise that bird-shot would only have maddened 
him.” 



THE PAETHER 


19 


Turning, he picked his way back to the spot where 
the girl waited. He found her sitting up on a stone 
and frowning down at her left foot. For the first 
time he observed that her feet and the shapely ankles 
above them were bare. The left one was much 
swollen. 

“ He’s as dead as they make ’em,” he sang out 
cheerily. “We’re a bunged-up lot, aren’t we? Cat 
lost his head, your arm and foot are hurt, and my 
right shoulder’s kicked into the middle of my back 
from letting both barrels go at once. And even my 
gun is all mauled from falling on the rocks.” 

“ Ain’t that too bad ? ” The tone was amusedly 
sarcastic. “ But I guess I’m the wust off—I’ve got 
more bad luck cornin’.” 

“ How so?” 

“ I’ll catch hell when I git home,” was the naive 
explanation. 

For a minute the man was speechless. Then he 
chuckled. 

“ So ? Then why go home ? ” 

The mountain girl’s answer was as straightforward 
as before. 

“ I don’t know any other place to go.” 

Her sober face told that she spoke the gaunt truth, 
and that she dreaded the thought of returning to the 
house whence she had come. An awkward pause fol¬ 
lowed. 

“Well, you may not get there to-night,” the man 
declared. “ I doubt if I can find my way out of this 
mess of rocks before daylight, and you certainly can’t 


20 


CAT-O’-MOUNTAIN 

go scrambling around on that bad foot. You’ll have to’ 
come to my camp now and get bandaged up.” 

The auburn brows drew together in another frown, 
and the eyes under them peered toward him in open 
suspicion. 

“ I ain’t so sure about that,” she asserted. “ I can 
git home some way alone, if I have to, and I don’t 
figger to stay up here all night. Who are you ? ” 

‘‘ Oh, just a rambling camper. But don’t be silly. 
I’m not a skunk. I’ll gladly take you home if it’s 
possible and sensible, but until you’re in condition to 
travel it’s neither. Now you need a bandage on that 
arm, some hot water on the ankle, and—are you 
hungry ?” 

I’m ’most starved,” she admitted. “ I got mad and 
run away this mornin’, and I ain’t et since breakfast.” 

Oho! I’m afraid you’re a temperamental little 
redbird. Well, come on down to camp and I’ll feed 
you bacon and beans—and hot coffee, lots of it. 
How’s that ? ” 

Sounds awful good. I guess you’re all right. You 
go ’long and show the way.” 

She turned about on her stone. The movement dis- 

* 

closed a long rent in the faded dress, running from 
arm to waist, through which glowed pink flesh. Her 
skirt, too, was badly ripped. The man behind the 
light switched it from her to the formidable mass of 
stones ahead. 

“If you can stub along on one foot,” he suggested, 
“ we can make better progress by hugging each other. 
I can stand it if you can.” 


THE PANTHER 


21 


A quick laugh answered him. The light veered 
back, revealing dancing eyes, perfect teeth, and flushed 
cheeks under the glowing hair. 

1 can stand 'most anything—if I have to," she 
flashed. “ And it looks like Td have to." 

''By George! Young lady, you’re a little beauty 
when you laugh! I think Tm going to enjoy this trip. 
Wait a minute and Til let you put your arm around 
my neck.” 

Followed the grind of boot-soles and the approach 
of the lamp. 

" You’re awful good." She laughed again. " You’d 
ought to sell soft soap for a livin’, you’ve got so much 
of it." 

" Humph! That’ll do. Now let’s walk." 

Slowly the white eye wobbled along among the 
tumbled blocks. The only sounds behind it were those 
of labored breathing and curt directions regarding the 
placing of feet. Not once did the girl whimper from 
the pain of the injured ankle. 

Presently the pair of tall cliff-chunks took shape 
ahead, their bases lost among smaller stones, their 
crests invisible in the upper gloom, their irregular sides 
framing a narrow black canon which seemed to end in 
emptiness. But out from that gloomy slit drifted a 
tang of smouldering wood-smoke; and beyond it, the 
girl knew, the hidden camp of her unknown rescuer 
waited. 

At the entrance to the covert they paused. So 
narrow was the passage that they could no longer 
advance side by side. But the carbide flame showed 


22 


CAT-O^-MOUl^TAIN 


that the footing ahead was smooth and almost level, 
offering no obstacle to her progress alone; also, that 
the distance to the cavern beyond was hardly more 
than a couple of rods. 

“ Now if you’ll hop along by yourself for a few 
yards more you’ll be there,” spoke the tall, vague form 
behind the metal lamp. “ Sorry my doorway’s so 
tight, but it was made before I came here.” 

The injured girl, drooping against a stone beside her, 
let the jest pass without a smile. 

“ You go ahead,” she prompted wearily. You’ve 
got boots.” 

“ What of it? ” he puzzled. 

Snakes.” 

Ouch! Snakes around here ? ” 

“ Why, sure. This country’s full of ’em—rattlers 
and copperheads. Guess you ain’t been into here long, 
mister.” 

Right. I haven’t. But—Lordy! You shouldn’t 
go around barefoot in snake country.” 

“ Mebbe. But folks can’t wear out their shoes into 
summer if they’re goin’ to have ’em for winter, can 
they?” 

He made no reply. Into the gap he turned, and 
through it he passed to the larger space beyond, his 
wide shoulders rubbing the rock as he passed. Be¬ 
hind him she limped along, leaning against one wall. 

At the end of the little canon he stepped downward, 
halted, and set gun and lamp on a rock shelf. Some 
twenty feet away, under an overhang of the cliff, an 
open blanket-roll and various small camp-tools showed 


THE PAHTHER 23 

beside an Indian fire—short sticks laid like wagon- 
wheel spokes, with the flame at the hub. 

“ Now you can hug me for the last time—maybe,” 
he solemnly stated. “ I'm going to tote you over there. 
It's rough going.” 

With which she was lifted and carried across a rub¬ 
ble of fragments to the blankets. 

As he straightened up in the brilliant light thrown 
across by the lamp, she saw him plainly for the first 
time: a lithe, firm-jawed man whose face glowed red 
with new sunburn between a gray flannel shirt and a 
head of silky blond hair; a clean-mouthed, clean¬ 
limbed chap whose twinkling blue eyes might have 
brought an approving smile to the lips of many a girl 
far more critical of men than this maiden of the moun¬ 
tains. But no hint of liking for her new-found friend 
dawned in her face. 

Into her eyes darted a light of mingled recognition, 
suspicion, repulsion. She shrank from him as if he 
had suddenly become one of those snakes against 
which she had just warned him. 

“ Oh, Lord! ” she breathed. “ It's you! The de¬ 
tective ! ” 


I 




CHAPTER II 

NIGGER NAT’S GIRL 

Blank astonishment crept across the countenance 
of the blond man. Motionless as the rocks around him 
he stood, staring down at the hostile face upturned to 
his. 

Detective ? Me ? he muttered. 

Yes, you! she flared. “ Think you’re smart, don’t 
you? Mebbe you think us folks are a lot of numb¬ 
skulls, but we ain’t. And seein’ you jest helped me 
out of a fix. I’ll tell you somethin’. Mister Spy—you 
better git out of the Traps right quick, while you’re 
able to travel! ” 

The man threw back his head and laughed—a 
gurgling laugh of pure enjoyment. 

“ Well, if this isn’t rich! ” he chuckled. ‘‘ Old Cap 
Hampton, the famous dee-teck-tifi! Say, little red- 
bird, I’m glad you dropped in this evening. I was 
thinking I’d go to-morrow, but now I reckon I’ll stay 
awhile. Looks as if this place might prove interest- 
mg.” 

The gray eyes snapped. 

Oh, it’ll be interestin’! ” was the ominous predic¬ 
tion. “If you don’t git right outside the Big Wall and 
stay out—some of the boys will be sleepin’ into new 
blankets and totin’ a newfangled shotgun, I shouldn’t 
wonder.” 

His gaze dropped to the blankets under her, which 

24 


NIGGER NAT’S GIRL 


25 


were obviously new; then darted to his hammerless 
gun across the way. When his eyes returned to hers 
the merriment was gone from them. They glinted like 
cold blue steel. 

“So that’s the game, eh?” His voice was hard- 
edged. “To kill a stranger for his gun and money. 
Well, your ‘ boys ’ are slow. They were snooping 
around my camp down by the creek last night, but 
they didn’t have the nerve to do anything but watch. 
Thanks for your tip. Hereafter I’ll load my gun with 
buckshot. You can tell your friends that.” 

A flush of anger dyed the girl’s cheeks. 

“ Oh, that ain’t it! ” she denied. “ Strangers are 
safe enough, long’s they mind their own business. But 
we’ve got no use for sneakin’ spies that den up into 
the rocks like copperheads. And if you think any¬ 
body’s scairt of your buckshot. Mister Spy, jest re¬ 
member this is old Injun country, and folks was 
gittin’ kilt into the Traps before your grandpop was 
borned. If all the dead men that’s been shot and 
tommyhawked round here should git up all together 
they’d—they’d shake the hills with their trompin’! 
You and your buckshot—ha, ha, ha! ” 

Her scornful laugh stung like a whip-lash. Yet, 
though his sunburned face grew still redder under its 
sting, he thought: “ Lordy, what a stunning little 
beauty she is with that color! There’s more than one 
kind of wildcat in these hills, too. I like this place 
better every minute.” 

Aloud he said: “All right, fair damosel. I don’t 
know-” 



26 


CATO’-MOU:S[TAIII 


Abruptly she started up—winced and paled as her 
sprained ankle stabbed with pain—but caught the wall 
and faced him in righteous wrath. 

“ Don’t you cuss me! ” she blazed. 

“Huh? I didn’t!” 

“ You did 1 You called me a dam-somethin’-” 

“ Oho! Fair damosel ? Why, that’s an old-fash¬ 
ioned compliment—means ‘ beautiful girl,’ or some¬ 
thing like that. Would you rather be called a cross¬ 
eyed old maid ? ” 

“ No I ” The word snapped. But she smiled in 
spite of herself. 

“ You must be a furriner to talk like that,” she 
added. “Why don’t you say what you mean? Dam- 
o-sell—that ain’t a name to call folks by. It’s ’most 
the same as what mom calls me.” 

“ What’s that ? ” 

“ Dambrat.” 

He regarded her a moment in silence. 

“Your mother calls you a brat?” he slowly asked 
then. 

“ Brat—and lots of other tilings,” she nodded. 
“ And now I’ve got to git home. I’ll git a good hidin’, 
I shouldn’t wonder, but I won’t stay here-” 

“ You will! ” came his incisive contradiction. 
“ You’ll stay here until that foot is doctored and 
you’ve had some food. Sit down! ” 

At the crisp crackle of his command she eyed him 
in surprised defiance. Her chin lifted, and she took 
a combative step on the hurt foot. Pallor and pain 
swept again across her face, and she staggered. He 




NIGGER NAT’S GIRL 


27 


promptly picked her up, squirming and resisting; set 
her down on the blankets, and inexorably held her 
there. Then, his eyes boring into hers, he spoke in 
cool determination. 

“ Behave yourself. Listen to me. 

You’re not going away until I say so. I’ll not say 
so until you’re better able to travel. You won’t be 
able to travel until that ankle is reduced. It won’t be 
reduced until I’ve worked on it. That’s all there is 
to that. 

“ Now about me. I’m no detective. I am Douglas 
Hampton, a rover, a drifter, with no home and no 
folks. I’ve been in quite a few places, done quite a 
few things; but I’ve never been a detective and I don’t 
intend to be one. My last job was as reporter on a 
New York newspaper, and I lasted almost a year. 
Got fired last week because the city editor rode me too 
hard and I sat him down in his own waste-basket. 
Now I’m in here because I feel like roughing it awhile 
and somebody told me it was rough up here in the 
Shawangunks. 

“ I intended to stay here only a day or two and then 
ramble along, stopping again wherever I found some¬ 
thing that hit my fancy. But now that people around 
here think they’re going to kick me out—I’ll stay 
longer. I’m one of those cantankerous chaps who can 
be coaxed a mile but can’t be kicked an inch. I always 
kick back. 

“ As I started to say awhile ago, I don’t know the 
history of this hole in the hills, but I’m right willing 
to learn all about it—^past and present. And if people 


28 


CAT-O^-MOVl^TAIN 


around here want to consider me a detective, let ’em. 
I don’t care what they think. The only reason why 
I’m telling you who I am is—well, because I feel like 
it.” 

With that he took his hands from her shoulders 
and straightened up. She made no move to rise 
again. Steadily she probed his face, and slowly she 
nodded. 

“ You talk straight,” she admitted. “ But if you 
ain’t here to spy, what are you doin’ up here, hid into 
the ledge? Folks said you went out through the Gap 
this mornin’ with your pack and all. So to-night I 
thought you must be some new feller.” 

“ I did go. I moved because I want to sleep at 
night instead of watching men sneak around in the 
bushes. Then I decided to come back, and I came. 
Didn’t try to hide myself, either—tramped right along 
the road. You people ought to keep sharper watch 
on desperate dee-teck-tiffs who wander in and out of 
here; you never know when they’ll come back.” 

His cheerful grin brought an answering smile this 
time. But it did not last long. At his next question 
it vanished. 

“ By the way, what am I supposed to detect in here ? 
Detectives have to detect something, you know.” 

“ You be careful, mister, or you’ll detect a rock 
failin’ olf onto your head from up top, or a load of 
buckshot scatterin’ out of the brush. Some of the 
boys are awful careless. If you figger to stay round 
here you better stay away from these ledges—and keep 
out of caves—and don’t ask too many questions.” 


NIGGER NAT’S GIRL 29 

“ M-hm, I take it that this is a good place to keep 
stilir 

Her tongue made no answer; but her eyes narrowed 
at the emphasis on the word “ still/' He laughed 
again and bent to freshen the fire. 

When he had moved the sticks inward upon their 
common focus and the flame was growing brighter and 
hotter, he frowned at a canvas water-bag pendent from 
a splinter of rock; thoughtfully eyed the girl's inflamed 
ankle and gashed arm; glanced at a small coffee-pot at 
the edge of the blaze, and ran a hand through his light 
hair. Then his face brightened. Rising, he rum¬ 
maged in a small bag of waterproof fabric, from which 
he produced two flat tins of tobacco. 

“ Have to economize on water," he said. “ All I 
own is in that cloth bucket, and the spring’s a deuce of 
a distance down. Between bathing your arm and 
making coffee and fixing your ankle—well, I just can’t 
cook that ankle as it should be done. But I can draw 
out most of the soreness with a tobacco poultice. 
That’s what we’ll have to do." 

She eyed the two tins in his hand. 

“ Is that all the tobacco you’ve got ? " 

** Why, yes. But it’s enough to do the trick." 

“ Then whaf 11 you smoke ? There ain’t any stores 
here." 

Then I don’t smoke for awhile," was the matter- 
of-fact reply. 

Dropping the cans beside her, he strode over to the 
lantern and brought it and the gun to the overhanging 
wall. Swiftly then he put coffee to boil, dipped a cup- 


30 


CAT-O’-MOVNTAI'N 


ful of water from the canvas bag, flipped a clean white 
handkerchief from the ditty-bag, and returned to her. 
Without a word she let him inspect the lacerated arm. 

“ You got a nasty rip,” he stated, scowling. “ Right 
along the bone. How did you do it? Fall?” 

“ Yes.” Her tone was more gentle now than it had 
yet been, and her eyes dwelt on the sober face bending 
over the injury. I’ve—I’ve got a little secret up 
here—a hole into the rocks that’s been my playhouse 
since I was little, and when mom’s awful mean or pop’s 
ugly drunk or—or I can’t stand it down there, I come 
up here and stay all by my own self. This time I got to 
dreamin’, I guess, and I went to sleep there. And 
when I woke up it was night. Mebbe I’d ought 
to have stayed there till mornin’, but I was awful 
hungry, and I tried to git down the rocks and took a 
fall.” 

He nodded sympathetically, bathing the wound with 
gentle touch. 

“ And then that mis’rable catamount had to smell 
me. They’re awful bad when they’re hungry and 
smell blood. I thought I was a goner till your light 
showed. Who ever told you a catamount would run 
if you said boo ? ” 

“ Somebody who didn’t know as much as he thought 
he did, I guess.” 

“ I guess so too. They’ll run from a dog ’most 
every time—even a little yippin’ yappin’ tarrier—and 
mostly they’ll run from a man, but not always. If 
they’ve kilt somethin’ or are jest goin’ to kill somethin’, 
look out. And they’re ready to tear up a young ’un. 


NIGGER NArS GIRL 


31 


or a hurt woman, any time. If you shoot 'em you've 
got to kill 'em stone dead or they'll rip you. Jonah 
Hay, he kilt one last winter—shot it four times and 
blew its jaw off and everything—and it lived long 
enough to git to him and claw his legs terrible. Its 
hide was longer than Jonah is himself, and Jonah 
stands six foot." 

He nodded again, absorbed in his work but marvel¬ 
ing at her new friendliness. Now that she was talk¬ 
ing, she chattered as easily as if to an old friend. 

“ And there was Sam Codd—he went to chop wood 
and run onto a little bobcat, nowheres near as big’s a 
catamount. The critter had kilt a rabbit, and it come 
at Sam, ready to jump right onto him. Sam, he 
backed more'n a quarter of a mile through the snow, 
holdin' his axe ready to bust the critter, till he got to 
his cabin. Then he jumped in and got his gun. But 
by the time he come out the cat was gone back to the 
rabbit, and when he got there the rabbit was et and 
nothin' left but blood and tracks.” 

He desisted from his cleaning of the arm, which had 
remained as stoically steady as if it were not in the 
least tender. Tearing the edges of the big handker¬ 
chief, he bound it around the injury and carefully 
knotted the edge-strips. Then he turned to the coffee, 
which now was steaming. In a moment he put a cup¬ 
ful of the hot liquid in her hands and dumped the 
grounds from the pot. 

“ Only one good cupful to a pot, but it's strong 
enough to knock you over,” he explained. ‘'And I 
need the pot now for your ankle. After the tobacco 


32 CAT-O’-MOUNTAIN 

gets to drawing I’ll cook some grub and make more 
coffee-” 

He paused suddenly, staring at one of the tobacco- 
tins he had picked up. Its blue revenue-paper seal 
was broken. 

Now when did I open that can?” he puzzled, 
turning up the lid. “ I was sure these were fresh. 
Confound it, it’s only half full! ” 

She made no answer. She blew on the coffee and 
took a tentative sip. 

Ooh! It’s scaldin’ hot! ” 

Uh-huh. Well, this other can’s full, anyhow. 
Guess I can make out.” 

While the fresh water came to a boil he squinted 
repeatedly at the opened can, half rifled of its fragrant 
brown slices. He did not see the impish glances she 
threw at him. Nor, when he brought the hot water, 
the tobacco, and more handkerchiefs, did he spy the 
laughing light in the demurely downcast eyes. 

With utmost care, though with necessary firmness, 
he bound the hot-water-soaked slices around the 
swollen ankle. Then he poured more hot water on 
the bandages until, despite herself, she flinched and 
drew up the foot. 

That’ll do, I reckon,” he said. “ Lucky I have 
plenty of handkerchiefs. That’s one thing I’m a crank 
about—plenty of clean handkerchiefs and socks. Now 
I’ll warm up some beans a la can.” 

“ Don’t you want a smoke ? ” she teased. 

Well, since the tobacco’s all gone, I do,” he frankly 
admitted. “ However-” 




NIGGER NAT’S GIRL 33 

“Then fill your pipe!’" And from under the 
blanket-edge she produced the missing slices. 

“ Well, you—^you-” he stuttered. 

“ Now don’t you call me a dam-sell again, mister! 
You stuff your pipe and have a good smoke.” 

He scowled, grinned, laughed, produced a stubby 
briar, and obeyed orders. 

“ I’ve a large mind to spank you,” he threatened, 
between puffs. “ But I never like to pick on a 
cripple. So instead I’ll condemn you to stay here all 
night.” 

“ That’s all right,” she countered serenely. “ I’ve 
made up my mind to stay anyway.” 

He missed two puffs while he stared at her. 

“ Glad to see you’re showing sense,” he blurted. 
“ But what’s the reason for the sudden change of 
heart ? ” 

“ You’re smokin’ the reason. ’Most any man round 
here would have kilt that catamount. That’d be fun. 
But none of ’em would use up his last smokin’ on a 
woman—not if both her legs were busted. A feller 
that would do that is worth trustin’.” 

He threw up his hands. 

“Talk about feminine logic! That beats ’em all,” 
he laughed. “ Well, fair dam—I beg pardon—^young 
woman, just who are you, if I may ask? ” 

The answer staggered him. 

“ Me? Oh, I’m only Nigger Nat’s girl.” 

Over his pipe he blinked at her. 

“ My name’s Marry,” she went on. “ Marry Oaks. 
My whole name is Marryin’, but it’s Marry for short.” 



34 


CAT-O’-MOUl^TAIN 


“ Marion,” he repeated absently. “ But who’s Nigger 
Nat? Not a colored man! ” 

The frcink eyes looked steadily back at him. 

“ Why, yes he is. He’s yeller—half nigger. He’s 
my pop. And mom’s part Injun.” 


CHAPTER III 


PIPE-SMOKE—AND POWDER-SMOKE 

Dawn swept across the Shawangunks. 

From the far-off crests of the Berkshires light 
leaped athwart the silvery Hudson and smote the 
frowning cliffs of the Great Wall of the Wallkill 
Valley: a grim gray precipice stretching mile after 
mile to the northeast, towering eight hundred feet 
upward from the lower lands; unscalable, impene¬ 
trable save at one small high gap—the Jaws of the 
Traps, whence in other days the redskin had slipped 
forth in bloody foray on the settlers below, and where 
in turn the white man had lurked in retaliatory am¬ 
bush. Through that gap now wormed the sandy road 
of the descendants of those pioneers, and along that 
road at this early hour passed nothing more sinister 
than dawn-sheen and morning breeze. 

At the top of the crag-wall the light sped across the 
forested gulf of the Traps itself, with its tiny scat¬ 
tered farmhouses and its rocky clearings and mysteri¬ 
ous by-paths, to strike against more cliffs—the glacier- 
gouged wall of Minnewaska, holding in its stony set¬ 
ting a tiny jewel of an upland lake; and the fissured 
butte of Dickie Barre, father of gigantic bowlders and 
guardian of unknown caverns. And as the dayshine 
flung itself against those forbidding ledges and then 

35 


36 


CAT-O’-MOUNTAIN 


fled on westward^ the following breeze also threw 
against them a wave of sound—the dry quacking 
chorus of myriads of katydids. 

All through the moonless September night those 
queer insects had ground out their tuneless song, so 
monotonous and so steady that the ears of other living 
things had long since become dulled to it. But now, 
swept by the dawn-wind in among the echoing crevices 
and canons, it seemed suddenly redoubled in volume. 
Upon the senses of native bird and beast it made 
slight impact, for they were well used to it; but on 
the nerves of a long, blanketed figure lying in a narrow 
passage between towering stone walls it struck like the 
clatter of an alarm-clock. His towsled blond head 
moved, his long-lashed lids lifted, and his blue eyes 
darted about in inspection of his surroundings. 

Beside his head lay a shotgun, its muzzle pointing 
outward, its safety-catch off, ready for instant use. 
Beyond the slit of an entrance showed nothing but 
more rocks and a labyrinthine tangle of trees and 
brush. Behind, the sheer wall of Dickie Barre alone 
was visible across a roomy space open to the sky. 
The only sounds were the everlasting quack of the 
insects and the subdued yarrup of some invisible yel- 
lowhammer flitting about in search for a breakfast. 

He yawned, stretched, and sat up. The blanket 
dropped from his chest, and he stared blankly at it. 
Then his gaze shot toward the cliff beyond. 

“Well, you ought to be spanked hard, you little 
bunch of wilfulness! ” he muttered. “ Sneaked in here 
after I was asleep and spread this blanket over me, 


PIPE-mOKE 


37 


didn’t you? And you needed both of ’em yourself— 
it’s clammy up here at night. And walking on that 
bad foot, too! ” 

But his eyes belied his growling tone as he arose 
and tiptoed to the end of the passage. As they swept 
the farther wall and dwelt on the little huddle of gray 
blanket beside the charred embers of the fire they 
softened still more. Obviously the girl muffled under 
that stout sheet of wool was sleeping as peacefully on 
her mattress of fragrant hemlock tips as if at home in 
her own bed. 

‘‘ These mountain girls are as tough as rawhide,” he 
thought. ** Imagine a city girl going through what she 
did last night without a whine! And sleeping like that 
under a rock. And-” 

His hand strayed to a shirt pocket and fingered 
some crumbled shreds of tobacco. 

“ And saving some smokes for me and stubbing 
over here on a sprained ankle to give me half the 
bedding. Would any of those flossy dolls in New York 
—or Chi or San Fran or N’Orleans—do that? 
Humph! ” 

Softly he stepped along the little shelf where last 
night he had set lamp and gun; sank to a comfortable 
squat, his back against the wall; filled and lit his pipe. 
Thereafter he squatted a few minutes smoking and 
musing. 

Nigger Nat’s girl,’” he thought. ‘'Daddy a 
drunken yellow mongrel, mother a hard-tongued half- 
breed. How in thunder can a pair like that produce 
such a witching wildcat as Marion Oaks ? Her skin s 



38 


CAT-O’-MOUNTAIN 


brown, but the brown is only sun-tan, or my eyes are 
liars. And that hair and those eyes ! How come ? ” 

A flirt of active wings drew his gaze away for a 
moment. On a limb of a plucky young pine growing 
from the face of the cliff above, a pair of inquisitive 
yellowhammers had paused to spy and gossip. Their 
bright eyes peered knowingly downward, and as they 
bobbed and bowed their restless heads the black cres¬ 
cents under their creamy throats vied for notice with 
the brilliant red splashes behind their crowns. Up 
and down the branch they hopped, murmuring fussily 
over this most scandalous event—a man and a girl 
shamelessly occupying an outdoor boudoir, just as if 
they were as free of convention as the birds them¬ 
selves. The man smiled up at them and waved a hand 
in acknowledgment of their sharp scrutiny. Instantly 
they winnowed away on whispering wings, to perch 
again farther on and renew their eager watch. 
Douglas resumed his puffing and puzzling. 

“ Must be a throwback of heredity,” he decided. 

There are such things as red-headed niggers. Saw 
one in Detroit once. The white strain in her folks 
cropped out strong when she was born. Must be 
tough for a girl to be white and yet have the tainted 
blood in her veins. No self-respecting white man 
could marry her, of course. But it’s a dirty shame 
that you have to be cursed by your ancestors, little 
Miss Marion. You haven’t a chance. You’ll become 
the ‘ woman ’ of some ignorant brute down below, and 
before you’re thirty you’ll be old and gaunt and 
broken-spirited.” 


PIPEmOKE 39 

He flipped the ash from the top of his pipe-bowl and 
puffed on. 

And yet your mind is that of a white girl—and a 
thoroughbred, too,’" he silently asserted. The to¬ 
bacco and the blanket prove that. And you despise 
your mongrel people. You run away up here to your 
little secret * playhouse,’ and there you dream yourself 
to sleep, as you did yesterday. And there’s poetry in 
you, too. Let’s see, what was that you said—* If all 
the dead men here should rise they’d shake the hills 
with their tramping! ’ ” 

His gaze grew absent, as through the smoke he 
visioned an army of musket-bearing pioneers, shaggy- 
haired and deerskin-clad, and of fierce-faced Indians 
carrying bow and tomahawk, marching along the an¬ 
cient trails. They passed, those long-dead fighting 
men, and in their wake strode whiskered mountaineers 
of a later day, gripping shotgun and rifle, watching one 
another in distrust—the victims of bullet and buckshot 
hurled from the masking thickets of rhododendron, 
the men who had died at the hands of their neighbors. 
Crag and crevasse echoed to the tread of their ghostly 
feet, and the cliffs quivered in unison. Out through 
the Jaws of the Traps they swung into the eye of the 
rising sun. The caverns ceased to echo. The man 
found himself staring at a gray blanket and listening 
to the rasping clack of the katydids. 

With a long sigh he arose and knocked out his pipe 
against his thigh. 

** Oh, well,” he muttered. “ The past is past, the 
present is here, and the future is rolling closer every 


40 


CAT-O’-MOUNTAIN 


minute. Poor little kid, with your dreams and your 
picture-words! I'm sorry for you. But all I can do 
is to cook some more grub for you and take you home. 
Then we’ll each have to gang our ain gait.” 

He moved toward the dead fire, still stepping softly. 
But half-way across the rocky rubble he halted short, 
struck by a sudden memory. 

** By thunder! ” he exclaimed. “ I wonder if -” 

Back into his mind had come a fragment of a tale 
told months ago in New York by a chance acquaint¬ 
ance—a man from up-State. 

“ Yessir,” he heard the voice saying, ‘‘there’s queer 
things back in the hills—stories that’s never been 
told much. These fellers I’m thinkin’ about, now: 
they were the hardest crowd you’d ever want to meet. 
They were bad whites and bad Indians and bad 
niggers, all in this one gang and livin’ in back of a 
long mountain wall with only one way into it. Out¬ 
laws? Yessir, and worse’n that. Land pirates, I’d 
call ’em. Cut your throat and never even wipe off the 
knife afterward. 

“ Well, sir, they’d come out of this here hole-in-the- 
wall I’m tellin’ about, and they’d waylay folks drivin’ 
along the roads, the rich folks in coaches and so on. 
And they’d kill the men travelers and strip ’em clean. 
And they’d carry off the women and hold ’em for 
ransom. And if the ransom wasn’t paid the women 
never got out. They had to stay there and be the 
women of that gang. If they were extry good-lookin’ 
maybe they never got a chance to be ransomed. 
More’n one fine lady went into that hole in the hills 



PIPE^^MOKE 41 

and never was heard of again. Yessir. That’s 
right. 

** Oh, yes, it was a long while ago. Good many 
years before our time. After the Revolution, maybe 
—it was pretty rough in lots of places round here 
then, and these fellers could fight oif a whole army by 
guardin’ that gap of theirs. What ever become of ’em 
I don’t know. But the descendants of that gang and 
the women prisoners are livin’ there yet—outlaw white 
blood and high-toned white blood and nigger and 
Indian blood all mixed up together—and I’ve heard 
tell that some of ’em are handsome, especially the 
women. No, I never was in there myself-” 

The memory-voice died and was lost. Vainly he 
racked his brain for more of the tale. Where did that 
man say the place was? In these Shawangunks? 
Farther south in the Ramapos? Up north in the 
Catskills, or far beyond in the Adirondacks? No an¬ 
swer came. The rest of the story, its beginning and 
end, were lost in the fog of many such chance con¬ 
versations at odd moments and in odd places. 

But he was sure that the locale of that legend was 
somewhere in the mountains of New York State. And 
out there across the Traps was a long mountain wall 
with but one way of entrance. And this girl’s father 

and mother were of mongrel blood, and- 

By the Lord Harry, it fits! ” he exclaimed aloud. 
“If this isn’t the place it ought to be. And there’s 
been a lady—a real, high-bred lady—in your family not 
many generations ago, Miss Marion, or I’m a China¬ 
man ! ” 




42 


CAT-O^-MOUHTAIl^ 


The surrounding rocks reverberated with his words. 
The blanket before him moved quickly. Out from it 
rose dancing gray eyes, glowing cheeks, and laughing 
red lips. 

“ Homin', Mister Detective! " she caroled. ‘‘ Are 
you talkin' into your sleep, or did you find a drink 
somewheres? You're foolish, sounds like." 

Somewhat sheepish, he stood a moment without re¬ 
ply. His eyes dwelt on the wealth of tumbled hair, 
now glowing like forest fire in the clean light of the 
new day: no pale sandy tresses, but rich, vivid, Titian 
red. Nowhere in it showed dark streak or telltale 
kink. 

Listen," he countered. Did you ever hear of a 
crowd of men—white and red and black—who went 
out through the Gap over yonder and brought in 
women and made slaves of them ? " 

At once her friendly face turned cold. 

You're huntin' into the wrong place," she told 
him, lifting her chin. “ Our fellers don’t do that. 
You better look somewheres else.” 

“ Oh, shucks! Can't you get rid of that idea that 
I'm hunting somebody? These desperadoes were all 
dead long before we were born. But haven’t you 
heard some such story from the old folks ? " 

After watching his frank face a moment she shook 
her head. 

“ No, never heard tell of such a thing. If they're 
all dead, what's the good of worryin' about 'em any¬ 
way ? ” 

He shrugged and moved on toward the charred 


PIPE-SMOKE 43 

sticks, meanwhile turning the conversation into an¬ 
other channel. 

“ How’s the ankle ? ” 

She probed under the blanket, threw the covering 
aside, pushed herself up, and took a tentative step. 

Why, by mighty, mister I You’re a reg’lar doctor I 
It’s sore, but it ain’t half as bad as ’twas. It hurt ter¬ 
rible last night when I-” 

She stopped abruptly, but her eyes went to the en¬ 
trance. 

When you came and covered me up ? Serves you 
right. That was the most foolish thing—^but I thank 
you, just the same.” 

Her lips opened, but for a moment no word came. 
Her eyes still were fixed on the narrow slit, and a little 
frown of concentration furrowed her brow. He 
pivoted and squinted against the glare of the rising 
sun now darting in at that crack. Then she spoke— 
low and tense. 

“ Where’s your gun ? Layin’ there ? ” 

‘‘ Yes.” 

“ Go git it! ” 

He sprang for the passage, where the weapon still 
lay beside his discarded blanket. As he moved he heard 
a badly balanced stone outside grate under the weight 
of a moving body. 

In a bounding rush he was across the open cavern 
and between the bowlders. With a swoop he snatched 
up his gun. His clutching hand closed with one finger 
inside the trigger-guard. 

Before he realized that he was pressing the little 



44 


cat-o^mov:ntaiii 


curved lever, the gun jumped violently backward. A 
thundering report smashed out. Powder-gas stung 
his throat The firearm fell with a sullen clack on the 
stones beside his feet. 

Vaguely his deafened ears received the echo of the 
shot roaring along the farther wall of the Traps, a 
mile away. He felt, rather than heard, something fall 
among the rocks outside. 

Grabbing the gun again, he slipped forward to the 
entrance. At the corners of the upstanding bowlders 
he halted short, staring at a huddled form which had 
collapsed among the prone blocks beyond. 

Only the head and upper torso of the stranger were 
visible, his lower body and legs lying behind a slanting 
stone. But clear in the sunlight showed a wan, pinched 
young face, swarthy-skinned, with close-cropped black 
hair. Along the stone under the head crept a red 
trickle. 

Suddenly Douglas was thrown aside. From behind 
him Marion darted, wild-eyed. From her pale lips 
broke a sharp cry: ‘‘ Steve! ” 

Across the stones she struggled. Beside the youth 
she dropped. Then she turned to Douglas a face 
startling in its white wrath. 

“ You—murderin’—hound! ” she choked. “ You’ve 
kilt him! ” 


CHAPTER IV 


THE FUGITIVE 

Dumb, Douglas leaned his gun against the wall and 
moved outward. 

“Don't you touch him!” blazed Marion. “Don't 
you put a hand onto him or I'll—I'll use that gun onto 
you! I might have knowed you was lyin'—if I'd 
knowed Steve was out I'd never trusted a word you 
said. Now you've got him, leave him to be buried 
where he was'horned. Oh, Steve, Stevie lad! And 
I—I give this feller the word to git his gun and do 
for you! If I'd only knowed you was out! Oh, Stevie 
boy! ” 

In a storm of grief she dropped her head on the thin 
chest, hugging the limp lad to her with convulsive 
strength. A few feet away the blond man halted, 
dazed by the unintentional tragedy and the violence of 
the girl's outburst. For minutes he stood there mo¬ 
tionless, hardly grasping the significance of her de¬ 
nunciation. 

Then his brain began to work. Her words, repeat¬ 
ing themselves, became appallingly plain. This young 
Steve was “ out ”—and his swarthy pallor was not 
merely that of unconsciousness or death: it was that 
of long confinement in some place whence he had 
just escaped—a place where hair was kept cropped. 
And he, Douglas Hampton, who had been half ac- 

45 


46 


CAT-O’-MOUl^TAIN 


cepted by this girl as the chance camper he claimed to 
be, now had become in her mind a far blacker monster 
than a mere detective''—a merciless bloodhound who 
killed poor fugitives on sight. Gazing miserably on 
the mountain maid mourning her luckless boy lover, 
he found the sight unendurable. His head drooped, 
and his eyes rested unseeing on the stones between him 
and the pathetic pair. 

Up overhead fluttered the yellowhammers, scared by 
the shot but emboldened by the ensuing silence to wheel 
about and whet their curiosity in scrutiny of the tragic 
group on the stones. High on the cliff behind, an un¬ 
seen squirrel fussed and fumed; and from crack and 
cranny along the wall and from crevices among the 
fallen fragments more than one furtive little eye 
peered out. Steadily the sun slipped upward in the 
clean blue sky, lighting up in pitiless nakedness one 
more spectacle such as it had seen all too often in the 
long stretch of time since men first penetrated into 
this grim gulf. The wretched man neither heard nor 
saw any of these things. Stone-still he stood, staring 
down at a spattered splotch of white on a gray rock. 

All at once his blank gaze focused sharply on that 
white spot. He started. In one stride he was beside 
the rock. As he stooped and squinted, a light flamed 
in his face. With a bound he was up and leaping to¬ 
ward the limp form beyond. 

Git away! shrilled Marion, lifting a tear-swollen 
face and turning on him like a tigress. ‘'Keep your 
bloody hands off him—he's mine ! My onliest-" 

“ Listen to me! ” he commanded. “ I never hit him I 



TEE FUGITIVE 


47 


The shot struck that stone yonder—the whole charge! 
It was an accident anyway—and he was out of line— 
the shot couldn’t hit him from where I stood. Let me 
see that wound,” 

For an instant she sat rigid, unable to believe, yet 
thrilled with hope. Quickly, but gently, he raised the 
head of the youth and probed the injury he found. 
Then he nodded vehemently. 

** This is no gunshot wound,” he asserted. “ It’s a 
cut and a bump. He tumbled and knocked his head 
against a stone. Got a hard crack, but nothing danger¬ 
ous. Poor kid, he looks half starved, and that smash 
he took just finished him—for awhile. All he needs 
is water, food, rest, and safety. I’ll give him all of 
them.” 

After one stare at the split scalp now turned toward 
her, she sprang up, her cheeks aglow with joy. But 
then she paused and shot a glance at the gun near 
by. 

“And you’ll take him back! No you won’t— 
I’ll-” 

In the nick of time he caught her wrist as she 
started toward the weapon. 

“Take him back where?” he snapped. “I’ll take 
him nowhere, except back among the rocks. After 
he’s able to walk he can go where he likes. He’s 
nothing to me. If he’s anything to you, don’t stand in 
his way. I’m trying to help him. Now behave! ” 

She was tugging furiously away, but as he released 
her she stood where she was, fighting now against her 
distrust of him. He lifted the sagging body, got a 



48 


CAT-O’-MOVNTAm 


firm grip, and lurched back toward the cliff. As he 
passed the shot-scarred stone he grunted and jerked 
his head downward toward it. Following, she paused 
an instant and studied the white patch, glanced at the 
little canon, then moved on with clearer face. She 
knew well how shot-marks looked; saw, too, that the 
tall stranger had spoken truth when he said Steve was 
out of his line of fire from the walled passage. 
Though she had not seen the gun fired, she realized 
now that hardly any man would have made so poor a 
shot if he had actually been trying to hit the hunted 
youth. 

Yet, when Douglas edged into the slit and bore his 
burden through, she halted behind him and put a 
tentative hand on the gun, still loaded in one barrel. 
Narrowly she inspected the “ newfangled weapon— 
so unlike the ancient muzzle-loaders common in the 
Traps—wavering between a desire to draw its remain¬ 
ing charge and fear lest it might disastrously explode 
again. After a dubious moment she shook her head 
and went on. She must trust this man, whether she 
would or not. 

Down on the tumbled blanket and the bough-tip bed 
Douglas laid the youth. Then he reached for the 
canvas water-pail. Its lightness brought a frown to 
his brow. Hardly a cupful remained in it. 

I’ll git somethin’,’’ she volunteered, reading his 
thought. Before he could fathom her purpose she was 
leaving through the passage, limping a little but mov¬ 
ing as if sure of herself. Presently she returned, 
carefully bearing a jug. 


49 


THE FUGITIVE 

** Well, you witch! Where did you dig up that ? ” 

** That’s one of the questions you better not ask 
round here,” she parried. “Jest hold up his head 
while I give him a good snort.” 

Smiling grimly, he raised the lad’s head and opened 
his lax mouth while she pulled the corn-cob plug. 
Deftly she put the nozzle to that mouth and poured 
the “ snort.” The aptness of the word was speedily 
demonstrated by the uncouth noise which erupted 
from Steve. 

His eyes flew open, rolled, blinked. He coughed, 
sprayed a mouthful of the colorless but powerful 
liquor on his helpers, gasped, and struggled up as if 
kicked out of sleep. Wildly he stared at the two faces 
so near his. Then, as the girl put the jug again to his 
mouth, he grabbed it with both hands and gulped 
thirstily. When he lowered the vessel he licked his 
lips, and across them flitted a faint grin. 

“ Gawd, am I dead or dreamin’ ? ” he breathed 
hoarsely. “ Marry! Be ye there ? An’ this here 
licker—I’m a dunkey if ’tain’t real! Who—^who’s this 
feller?” 

His brown eyes glared into the cool blue ones. In¬ 
voluntarily his right hand gripped the jug-handle as if 
it were a gun-stock. His gaunt face tightened into a 
menacing mask. He wavered like a mortally wounded 
wildcat gathering its last strength to spring. 

“ I’m all right, Steve,” soothed Douglas. “ I’m not 
after you. You’re safe, and this is Marry, and that’s 
real stuif in the jug. Calm down.” 

Under steadying influence of the quiet tone the 


50 


CAT^O’-MO UN TAIN 


youth relaxed a little. Yet his lined mouth remained 
set as he demanded: ‘‘ Who shot at me ? ” 

“ Nobody,” Douglas told him. “ My gun exploded 
accidentally. I didn’t even see you. You fell and 
cracked your head.” 

The boy still glowered suspiciously, but when 
Marion spoke his gaze shifted to her. 

That’s right, Steve. You’re all right, ’cept a little 
cut and a bump. Tell me quick—how long you been 
out ? Are they after you ? ” 

A savage smile twisted the thin mouth. 

‘‘ I dunno if they’re trackin’ me—I reckon so. I 
ain’t seen ’em. I got ’way Monday night, an’ I ain’t 
goin’ back till I git Snake Sanders. Cuss him, he put 
me away—an’ I never done it, Marry, I never! It 
was Snake done it 1 An’ I got the blame. Three years 
I been doin’ time—but I’ll take them three years outen 
him quick’s I git to a gun! Yas, an’ all the rest of 
his life too! I’ll-” 

“ Don’t you! He’ll git you, not you git him. You 
might’s well try to git a copperhead by grabbin’ onto 
him with your bare hands. And you’ve got to keep 
out till the officers quit huntin’—they’ll be into here, 
if they ain’t here now. Don’t you go near the house 
or a gun—don’t move or make a noise till I tell you, 
or you’re a goner! Now gimme that jug and I’ll put 
it back. We’ve got to go quick to some other hide¬ 
out—there’s been shootin’ up here and we don’t know 
who’ll come—gimme that jug! ” 

** Not till I git ’nother big snort under my shirt,” 



THE FUGITIVE 51 

refused Steve, lifting the jug in unsteady hands, I 
ain’t et much for four days, an’-” 

“Gimme that jug!” she stormed. “Know \vhose 
it is ? Snake’s! ” 

The boy started as if stung. His grip relaxed, and 
she yanked the jug from him and grabbed up the 
corn-cob. Douglas noticed, in an absent way, that the 
clay was smeared with a streak of green paint. 

“Snake’s? I been drinkin’ that varmint’s licker?” 
raged Steve. “ I’d ruther lap up p’ison! Gimme that 
jug back! I’ll bust it!” 

“ No you won’t! ” She backed off. “ He’s right 
round here now somewheres, I shouldn’t wonder, 
a-sneakin’ and a-slidin’ along, and you’ve got to lay low 
awhile—you ain’t even got a gun. I’m goin’ to put this 
right back where ’twas. You keep quiet.” 

She hobbled away. Steve struggled to rise and 
overtake her, but found himself powerless in the grip 
of Douglas. 

“ Cool off, Steve,” advised the blond man. “ Think 
what a joke this is on Snake—you drinking up his 
licker. Wouldn’t it make him mad ? ” 

A sudden hard grin split the pallid face. Steve sank 
back. 

“ That’s right, too—uh—what’s yer name ? ” 

“ Call me Hamp.” 

“ Hamp. Good ’nough. I dunno ye, an’ ye don’t 
b’long round here, but ye act right. Got anything to 
eat, Hamp? I been goin’ a long time, an’ it’s ’most 
took the tuck outen me.” 

He began to blink a little uncertainly. The “ licker ” 



52 CAT^O’-MOUNTAIN 

was fast getting in its work on his woefully empty 
stomach. 

“ Got a can of beans and some water, and they're 
yours.” 

Gimme ’em! ” 

The demand crackled like an electric spark. The 
hard-set visage turned ravenous, and the wiry frame 
lifted itself and set its back against the wall. When 
Douglas tendered the opened can it was snatched and 
a quarter of its contents dumped into a grimy hand. 
An instant later the whole handful had been wolfed 
down and another was being stuffed into a fast-work¬ 
ing mouth. When Marion came limping back from 
her mysterious pilgrimage only an empty tin and greasy 
lips remained to tell what had happened. 

Unspeaking, the blond man opened another bean- 
can, put in a tin spoon, and handed it to the girl. She 
sank on a stone and began eating eagerly, but far more 
daintily than the boy. Douglas watched silently, but 
he nodded as he noted the instinctive difference in her 
way of feeding herself. Steve also watched, but with 
a different thought. 

Marry, ye’re gittin’ awful purty,” he vouchsafed. 
** When I went ’way ye was thin’s a rail, but now 
ye’re han’some as a little red wagon. Ain’t ye got a 
kiss for me? ” 

** Not till you wash your face, you dirty thing,” she 
composedly answered. He grinned and wiped his 
mouth on a tattered sleeve much too big for him. 
** Where’d you git the clothes ? ” she demanded. 

“Them?” He glanced down at threadbare coat. 


TEE FUGITIVE 


53 


thin shirt, and ragged overalls. Found ’em into 
fellers’ barns down yender. Hid my pen-clo’es into 
one feller’s hay. Purty smart, hey ? ” 

“ Smart 1 Don’t you know the officers’ll track you 
that way ? They will, sure’s you’re livin’.” 

” They’ll have a job findin’ me now I’ve got here,” 
he muttered, though plainly disconcerted. “ ’Less’n 
somebody blabs.” 

Brown eyes and gray eyes switched to the quiet man 
who sat taking it all in. 

“ Don’t worry,” said he. I haven’t seen you folks 
at all—either of you.” 

After a narrow stare Steve nodded slightly. Not 
another word was spoken until the meagre meal was 
finished and the water-bag was totally empty. Then 
Marion took command of the situation. 

“ We’ll be goin’ now,” she stated, rising. “ No, 
don’t come with us. Steve and me, we’ll go ’long by 
our own selves, and then you won’t know what’s 
’come of us if anybody should ask you. We’re awful 
obliged to you, stranger, and we wish you good luck. 
G’by.” 

“I’m not saying good-bye. I’m staying here, as I 
told you before. Maybe we’ll meet again.” 

She took several halting steps outward before re¬ 
sponding, Steve trailing silently behind her. At th-e 
edge of the canon she paused and spoke over one 
shoulder. 

“ If you’re stayin’, don’t stay here. It’s no place 
for you. You’ll be better off down below. There’s 
Jake Dalton’s place, down towards the Clove, where 


54 


CAT-O’^MOUNTAIN 


nobody lives any more, and you could go into there 
and live pretty safe and comf'table if you mind your 
own business—and if the ha’nt don’t git you.” 

“ Oho! A haunted house! ” 

So folks say. Jake, he got kilt last spring by 
somethin’—nobody knows what. They found him 
after he’d been dead a week or so, and they couldn’t 
look at him right close. But he wasn’t shot or cut or 
clawed—he was jest swelled up terrible. Two or 
three fellers stayed into his house since, and they got 
drove out—somethin’ was there that they didn’t see, 
but they could hear it and feel it. Some say it’s Jake’s 
ha’nt. Others say it ain’t Jake but the thing that kilt 
him. If you want to try livin’ there nobody’s likely 
to bother you much. It sets on the left of the 
Clove road, down yonder, with two big pines back of 
it. 

“ Now we’re goin’. Oh, and one other thing—you 
better not come round Nigger Nat’s house. He ain’t 
sociable. G’by.” 

Out through the crack they passed. For a minute 
or two the blond man sat looking moodily at the exit. 
Then he arose and followed. 

The rocks outside were vacant. The trees and un¬ 
dergrowth showed no sign of life. Even the curious 
yellowhammers were gone. Nowhere, except on two 
stones—one scarred by shot, one stained with blood— 
was anything to show that since the last sunset two 
young hill-folk had come suddenly into the life of 
Douglas Hampton and as swiftly vanished from it. 

“ Well,” he muttered, picking up his gun and turn- 


THE FUGITIVE 


55 


ing back, “ Steve, you tough young wolf, you don't 
know how lucky you are. I only hope you’ll treat her 
right in the years to come.” 


CHAPTER V 


CREEPING THINGS 

Up on the brink of Dickie Barre, on a triangular 
outcrop of stone bare of brush but topped by whisper¬ 
ing pines, Douglas lounged in luxurious content, bask¬ 
ing in the mellow warmth of September sun. 

Behind him his pack leaned against the base of a 
pine. Beside him lay his gun. Before him stretched 
the long panorama of the Traps. 

From the half-naked rock of Millbrook Mountain, 
where the rim of the great bowl curved westward to 
merge into the Minnewaska steeps, to the castle-like 
peak of Sky Top, beneath which the strange lake of 
Mohonk nestled out of sight in a cup of sheer stone, 
rambled the top of the Great Wall. Northward from 
Sky Top it dipped downward in a long sweep, and 
there the east-swinging wall of Dickie Barre seemed 
to close in and complete the unbroken ring of up¬ 
lands surrounding the forested chasm. But the man 
loafing up on the breezy point knew that such was not 
the case. 

Though he had not yet traveled in that direction, 
he had been studying a couple of squares of Govern¬ 
ment topographic map, of which several were in his 
ditty-bag; and he knew that the walls did not close. 
They pinched together into a narrow ravine, then 

56 


CREEPING THINGS 57i 

veered apart again, each pursuing its own way into 
the north until it became only a series of rounded 
knolls sinking into the other low hills beyond. And 
that ravine, or perhaps the wider valley floor beyond, 
must be the Clove of which Marion Oaks had spoken. 

Through that ravine and on into the north, the map 
said, ran a road—the inside road of the Traps; and 
along that road-line, at wide intervals, were the little 
square symbols which, to the topographer, signify 
“ houses.’* One of those dots must be the house where 
Jake Dalton had lived before he was found “ swelled 
up terrible”; where now even the hard sons of the 
craggy hills dared not sleep because of the fearful 
thing which could not be seen but could be felt. Be¬ 
fore sundown, the lone blond man intended, he would 
find that house and see whether it was fit for habita¬ 
tion. If so, he meant to inhabit it, ha’nt or no ha’nt. 

Everything impelled him toward that house. To 
live continuously among the bowlders where he had 
stayed last night was neither comfortable nor sensi¬ 
ble: the place was too far from water, from food, 
from human associates; and when the drenching fall 
rains should come, as they might at any time, he would 
be almost unprotected. For sinister purposes, for the 
concealment of nameless activities and of wanted men, 
the maze of cliff-blocks was ideal; but for the steady 
residence of a man who dodged neither lawmakers 
nor lawbreakers it was the reverse. And to a red- 
blooded, two-handed fellow like Douglas Hampton the 
story of the uncanny house was enough. Had it been 
an even poorer place than his rocky lair, he would 


58 CAT-O^-MOVl^TAm 

have journeyed thither to seek the solution of its mys¬ 
tery. 

But the day was far from old, and there was time 
to loaf and look and bask and think, unworried by 
necessity. Here was none of the rush and drive of 
the city, the scurry to fill assignments, the fret and 
fume of the hordes of business-slaves hurtling over¬ 
ground and underground in ant-like activity. Here 
was nothing to do but relax, absorbing the golden sun¬ 
light and the green beauty of nature and the clinking 
music of unseen hammers far below and far away on 
the Mohonk slope, where millstone-makers were rift¬ 
ing rock in their little quarries. What though one had 
no habitation ? What though his food was almost gone 
and the pipe dangling from the corner of his mouth 
was empty? Time enough to seek shelter when night 
approached; time enough to rustle for food when the 
last crumb had vanished. Now was the hour to let 
his city-starved soul feast on freedom. 

So he leaned there on an elbow, blinking outward 
and downward at the varying verdure of the hard¬ 
wood forests, the red spots of sumach and the orange 
tips of goldenrod brightening the little fields, the tiny 
houses dotting the openings, the little ribbons of smoke 
drifting away from their chimneys. His thoughts 
moved in a slow circle—from Marion to Steve, from 
Steve to the haunted house, from the haunted house 
to the legend of the long-dead outlaw gang, from the 
gang to its women prisoners, and so back again to 
Marion. Where was she now ? Down in one of those 
houses, beaten and sworn at for running away ? Much 


CHEEPING THINGS 


59 


nearer, still talking with her escaped-convict lover in 
the “hide-out” to which she had taken him? Limp¬ 
ing along somewhere in the masking brush, forgetful of 
pain, thinking only of bringing food to the worn-out 
fugitive? Only the labyrinth below could tell; and it 
was not in the habit of telling tales about its children. 

And this Snake Sanders, who had wriggled out of 
the way of officers and let a boy suffer the penalty of 
some unknown crime—who and what was he? The 
thinker, accustomed to studying faces and voices, felt 
that Steve’s denial of guilt and denunciation of Snake 
were genuine. His virulent hatred, his vicious threat 
against that man, were those of the bitterly wronged. 
Yet Marion, herself swift-tempered and courageous, 
had shown that she feared this Snake, who might be 
a-sneakin’ and a-slidin’ along near at hand- 

The blond man grew tense. Something was sneak¬ 
ing along, though not very near. Something was 
creeping stealthily toward him from the thick growth 
behind; something which made no footfall, but which 
caused a slight difference in the rustling of the breeze- 
kissed leaves. 

He started to turn his head, then checked the move¬ 
ment. He felt that he would see nothing: that the 
creature was traveling with Indian stealth, keeping 
itself masked; that his look behind would only warn 
the sinister thing that its approach was known. He 
was lying dangerously close to the edge, and his nerves 
shouted to him to get back while there was time. But 
he held himself where he was. 

His eyes flicked downward at his gun. Then he 



60 


CAT-O’-MOVNTAIIJ 


carelessly raised himself to a sitting position, took his 
pipe from his mouth and glanced at it, put it back, 
and let his hand stray down to his shirt pocket. It 
hovered there a moment, then sank loosely as if 
empty. But cupped in his palm now was a little round 
mirror. 

Casual though his movements had been, the soft 
rustle of progress had ceased. Only the little flutter- 
ings caused by wandering air-currents came to him. 
As he sat still, however, apparently absorbed in con¬ 
templation of the scene below, it recommenced. 
Slowly, imperceptibly, he turned his hand, slanting 
the mirror up and down by degrees, watching it from 
the corner of his eye. It was a schoolboy trick which 
he had used more than once in later years when de¬ 
sirous of seeing something behind without turning his 
head. And now, listening keenly and moving the tell¬ 
tale glass with practised hand, he soon located the ad¬ 
vancing thing behind the pine, some ten feet away, 
where his pack lay. 

It was creeping now on the ground, free from the 
brush beyond but still unseen; keeping itself concealed 
behind pack and pine, making only a slight slither as it 
came. The sound died. For a long minute all was 
quiet. Then, slowly, above the edge of the pack rose 
a hat. 

Shapeless, dingy felt it was, with a ragged hole 
below its crown. Under its brim glimmered black 
eyes, beady and cold as those of a reptile. Little by 
little the nose came up into view—a flat, wide nose 
with something of the triangularity of a snake’s head. 


CREEPING THINGS 61 

There it poised, mouth and jaw hidden behind the bulk 
of the pack. 

The opaque eyes fixed greedily on the new shotgun 
lying beside the watcher’s leg. Then they returned to 
the back and shoulders of the blond man, and the lids 
narrowed into wicked slits. The nose drew down¬ 
ward, the eyes followed, the hat faded. Above the 
pack nothing showed except the low branches of the 
pine. 

Little sounds of movement came—of movement but 
not of advance. Douglas moved the mirror to 
right and left of the lump of blankets. His fingers 
grew rigid. Something had appeared beside the 
pack—a light but strong box, from which a dirty 
black-haired hand was lifting a lid. As that lid arose 
the box was tilted so that its top became an open 
side, facing toward the man on the brink. And out 
from it crawled a big copperhead. 

Head raised, it glided forward a foot or two and 
stopped, its tail still in the box, which lay motionless. 
Its venomous eyes focused on the still figure of the 
man beyond, who remained as rigid as the rock on 
which he sat. Its tongue ran out and vibrated in men¬ 
ace. Slowly it slipped forward a little farther, then 
paused again. Douglas braced himself to snatch up 
his gun, whirl, and fire the instant its approach was 
resumed. But it was not resumed. 

Instead, the repulsive creature lay quiet, absorbing 
the warmth of rock and sun. Minutes passed, and it 
made no move. Then from beyond the pack came a 
faint sibilant sound—an almost inaudible noise which 


62 


CAT’0^-M0V:^TAIN 


was not hiss nor breath nor whistle, but something 
of all three, and which seemed to arouse the reptile. 
It turned, and crept sluggishly toward the spot whence 
the sound had come. 

Twice that indescribable sibilance was repeated, and 
the snake moved on in its deliberate, fat-bodied way. 
Just then a sudden gust of wind swooped playfully 
along the brink, startling the leaves into a flapping 
chorus like the beating wings of trapped birds. The 
hideous thing on the ground slid around the pack, 
paused, was gone. 

Douglas drew a long breath and became aware that 
his shirt was clammy with cold perspiration. A chill 
shivered down his back. Moving the glass, he 
scanned all around and above that pack. Nothing 
showed. The gust of wind fled along on its frolicsome 
way, and all grew quiet. No sound came from behind 
the pine. 

Still controlling his movements, he looked casually 
around^ then arose as if tired of sitting. As he stood 
up, however, his gun was in one hand, and he loosely 
swung its twin muzzles to cover the pack. Feigning 
a yawn, he stepped lazily toward the pine, dropping 
the mirror into a trousers pocket as he moved. With 
a quiet click his safety catch slid, and two solid 
charges—of buckshot—were ready for instant use. 

A good stride away from the blankets he turned 
aside and drifted around the butt of the pine. Then 
he halted, sorely puzzled. The man who should have 
been lurking there was not. The box, too, had van¬ 
ished. Not even the snake- 



CREEPING THINGS 


63 


But yes, the snake was there. It was curled just 
below and behind the pack, hidden from any eye ex¬ 
cept one searching for it; three feet of silent death, 
ready to strike its fangs into the hands of the man 
stooping to lift his back-burden before slinging it on 
his shoulders. Even now, with that man’s eye on it, it 
was poising in venomous alertness, its tongue vibrating 
again like a blur. 

Douglas stepped onward a little, lifted his gun, 
and fired. The snake rolled writhing away, blown 
apart. Instantly he wheeled, the other barrel ready 
to meet any menace. But still nothing showed itself. 
The growth beyond seemed empty. 

Warily watching, he stepped to his pack, swung it 
up one-handed, and stood a minute longer scanning 
his surroundings. Seeing nothing new, he got into 
the straps and strode away. Only a few rods to his 
left, he knew, ran a faint trail—the path by which he 
had come here after finding a steep slope which had 
enabled him to climb Dickie Barre. The trail would 
be empty, of course; the skulking assassin in the felt 
hat would be so cunningly hidden in the encompassing 
tangle that no mere stranger could find him. No 
use hunting him. 

But as he emerged into that path he stopped, star¬ 
tled. There, only a few feet away, stood the man. 

So astounded by the other’s audacity was Douglas 
that he stood gaping. The sinister hillman grinned 
guilelessly. 

“ Howdy, stranger! ” he greeted. Scairt ye, did 
I? Was that ye a-shootin’ jest now? ” 


64 


CATO^'MOUl^TAIN 


Douglas swallowed an impulse to leap at him. Still 
amazed, he glanced rapidly over him. Below the 
ophidian eyes and flat nose which he had seen before, 
he now noted a coarse mouth, tobacco-yellowed teeth, 
scraggly black beard about a week old, long lean frame, 
and nondescript garments. His curving hands were 
empty. His snake-box was not with him now. Nor 
had he any gun. 

The man moved slightly, shifting a foot. In the 
movement was something reptilian—a sinuous smooth¬ 
ness that was serpentine. And in the short sentences 
which he had just spoken was a repellent hiss. 

“ Howdy yourself! growled Douglas. “ What are 
you doing here ? ” 

“ Jest a-ramblin’ round, stranger. Might ast ye the 
same. What was ye shootin’ ? ” 

‘‘ Snake.” Douglas gave him a hard look. 

Yeh ? Huh! Awful waste o’ powder. Us fellers 
use sticks onto them things. Thought mebbe ye got 
what ye’re into here for.” 

A cunning wink followed his last utterance. 

** Meaning? ” 

The yellow teeth bared themselves in a wide, silent 
laugh. But the beady eyes held no mirth. 

“Think I dunno ye? Huh! I ain’t no fool. Ye 
ain’t here jest to look at rocks an’ things. Trouble is, 
ye dunno this kentry an’ how to work it. None o’ ye 
do. Everybody into the place knowed days ago ye 
was here, an’ ye’ll never git yer man ’less’n ye do busi¬ 
ness. I’m the feller to do business with.’’ 

Again the cunning wink. 


CREEPING THINGS 


65 


“ Meaning? ” repeated Douglas. 

** Huh 1 Ye know. We’ll work shares. I’ll toll yer 
man to ye for half the reward. Who d’ye want? 
How much’s he wuth ? ” 

The blond man bit back a sudden desire to grin. 

“ Who are you ? ” he countered. 

‘‘ Me ? Snake Sanders.” 


CHAPTER VI 


THE KNOCK-OUT 

Douglas deliberately swung the pack from his back 
and dropped it. Against it he leaned his gun, making 
sure, as he did so, that he had restored the safety-lock. 
As he faced Snake Sanders he caught the black eyes 
fixed again on the weapon, and in them glinted the 
same light of cupidity which had been there before. 

“ Right purty gun yeVe got, stranger,^* Snake 
admired. “ Don't look sensible, though, without no 
hammers onto it. What's one o' them guns cost ? ” 
Oh, several dollars. But what about this business 
of yours ? " 

“ It's like I tell ye." Snake dragged his gaze away 
from the shotgun. “ Do business with me an* ye'll git 
what ye want. Otherways ye git nothin'—but trouble." 

“ So? And who'll make the trouble? You? " 

'*Me? Huh! I don't have to. Ye'll jest fall into 
it." 

“ Fall into it. Sure it won't come crawling up on 
me from behind ? " 

The black lashes flickered. 

What ye mean by that ? " 

** Your name's Snake." 

Sanders' beady stare beat into his inscrutable face. 

66 


THE KNOCK-OUT 67. 

Presently the serpentine man grinned and subtly re¬ 
laxed. 

“ Names don’t hurt. Think I’d try to do ye after I 
got my money, mebbe? That ain’t my way, stranger. 
Folks calls me Snake 'cause I can handle snakes. 
They don’t never bite me. I can tromp right round 
’em into my bare feet, an’ pick ’em up into my bare 
hands, an’ they lemme alone. I can talk to ’em—• 
snake talk—an’ they mind. If I’d of been over yender 
’fore ye kilt that snake o’ yourn, now, I could have 
sent him away jest by talkin’ to him.” 

His gaze never wavered as he talked. He gave no 
sign of guilt. Unaware that he had been observed in 
the little round mirror, he was sure there was nothing 
to connect him in this man’s mind with the fact that 
a copperhead had lurked beside the pack, and he was 
bold enough to make capital of the presence of that 
reptile. Evidently he was proud both of his name 
and his diabolical gift. 

“ Ye must have beam o’ me,” he went on. “ I’ve 
done business before. Nobody round here knows it, 
o’ course. I keep my tracks covered. But they must 
have told ye outside ’bout Snake Sanders. I’m him.” 

Douglas kept the disgust out of his face. He wanted 
to know just how deep was this man’s duplicity. 
He had not yet learned that it was absolutely bottom¬ 
less. 

“ I’ve heard the name. People around here don’t 
monkey with you much, do they ? ” 

A hissing laugh came through the yellow teeth, and 
for once the eyes showed a glint of amusement. 


68 


CAT^O’-MOUNTAIN 


No they don't. I’ve got this hull place right into 
my hand, mister. Folks step wide o’ me. Some fel¬ 
lers has got brash an’ throwed buckshot at me, but 
they don’t no more. They’re dead. Others has 
learnt.” 

“ I see. Those fellows stepped on snakes, maybe ? ” 
Mebbe. I ain’t sayin’. But come on, stranger, we 
can’t talk here all day. Who d’ye want ? How 
much ? ” 

“ I think,” was the slow answer, “ that the party I’m 
interested in just now is out of reach.” 

Snake looked blank. Reaching smoothly into a 
pocket, he drew out a plug of tobacco, bit off a chunk, 
and chewed. 

'' Got away clean, ye mean. Ain’t into here no- 
wheres? Huhl Don’t be too sure. There’s lots o’ 
hide-outs into here that ye dunno ’bout. I know ’em. 
I can git anybody—man, woman, or chile. An’ there’s 
more’n one way to skin a skunk. If yer man ain’t 
too well knowed, why won’t ’nother man do ? ” 

Again the insinuating wink. 

“ Meaning? ” 

“ Aw, come off! Ye know. Fix it onto some feller 
we can git. Take him out, fix up yer case, railroad 
him an’ git yer money. Think I dunno how you 
detectives work? Ye must think I’m simple. It’s 
done right ’long—^grab a feller that ain’t got no friends 
an’ send him up. What chance has a feller here got 
when he gits drug into the courts outside? Puh!” 
He expectorated profusely and waited. 

Douglas laughed out in contempt. He took a couple 


THE KNOCK-OUT 69 

of slow strides forward. Snake shifted again, and his 
eyes narrowed once more. 

“ You’re barking up the wrong tree,” the blond man 
derided. “ I’m no detective. I’m hunting nobody. 
I’m in here for—my health. See ? ” 

Snake saw—or thought he did. Instantly he 
changed front. 

‘‘ I knowed it. Ye needn’t jump onto me, now. I 
was jest a-tryin’ ye out. If ye was a real detective 
ye’d be down snoopin’ round houses, not a-hidin’ out 
up here. Wal, ye come to the right place, stranger. 
Where ye from? What’d ye do? Go on, tell a feller. 
I’ll keep it dark. Got money, o’ course. Gimme some 
an’ I’ll fetch ye all the feed ye want.” 

‘‘And fetch the officers along too, ^vhen they 
come.” 

“Aw no. That talk I jest give ye was all moon¬ 
shine—not a true word into it. I was jest makin’ sure 
o’ ye, I tell ye. Now I know ye I’ll-” 

“ Shut up! ” Hampton’s anger broke out. “ I’ve 
been making sure of you, too. You’re a liar. You’re 
a treacherous sneak. You’d sell a hunted man to me— 
you’d sell an innocent man to me—^you’d sell me, too. 
You think I’m after somebody, eh? Well, you’re right. 
I’m after the man who thought he was going to get 
my gun and money, the man who didn’t get them and 
is trying to trap me now, the man who sneaked up and 
let that copperhead out of the box! I’m after Snake 
Sanders! And I’ve got him 1 ” 

So rapid had been his words, so swift was his fol¬ 
lowing leap, that Snake stood flat-footed as a big fist 



70 CAT-O’-MOUNTAIN 

smacked into his face. He was knocked headlong 
backward. 

Into the bushes he sprawled with a crash of breaking 
branch and twig. Into the bushes Douglas jumped 
after him. But Sanders, though dazed by the impact 
of the blow and the shock of finding himself caught, 
was neither senseless nor helpless. He wriggled over 
and seemed to curve upward. Head-first, like a strik¬ 
ing reptile, he threw himself at the legs of the man 
above. His punisher lurched over him and fell. 

Snake's lean frame wriggled forward again and 
started up. But he was not quite free. Without 
waiting to rise, Douglas darted a hand backward and 
clamped it around one bare ankle. Holding his grip, 
he rolled over, twisting and yanking the trapped leg. 

The hillman tottered and lost his footing. But even 
before he hit the ground for the second time he lashed 
out in air with his free foot His heel thumped into 
the blond man’s face, snapping his head back like a 
fist-blow. Hissing furiously. Snake jerked up his leg 
and let drive again. The fierce foot-punch missed this 
time, for its mark had ducked aside and the leg shot 
over Douglas’ shoulder. Promptly it was seized, held, 
forced down. 

Both men now were in a grotesque posture for fight¬ 
ing. Snake’s legs were spread, with his antagonist 
sitting between them and clutching a foot on each side, 
while Snake himself sat on one booted ankle, pinning 
it down. But the advantage was decidedly with 
Sanders, for both his hands were free. He shot them 
straight for the other’s throat. 


TEE KNOCK-OUT 


71 


His arms were struck up and his savage clutch 
failed. His feet were freed, but the hands which had 
gripped them now were fists, shooting short-arm jolts 
into his jaw. And, short though those blows were, 
they crunched his teeth together with a force that made 
him blink groggily and throw himself aside. 

An instant later he found himself grappled. Douglas 
was clinching him, shoving him down, striving for a 
leg-hold with his knees and relentlessly forcing one 
of his arms up behind his back. Douglas* eyes were 
ablaze with wrath and his jaw set like a rock. Now 
he had this treacherous reptile in a real grip, and he 
meant to smash it. And Snake, reading the grim 
purpose in the face of the man against whose back he 
had loosed creeping death, felt fear stab through 
him. 

Heretofore the sinister hillman had fought only in 
a flurry of surprise and rage—though he would not 
have neglected to make his work complete if once he 
got the upper hand. Now the fury of desperation 
fired him. He snaked himself over sidewise, wriggled 
a leg loose, twined it around the booted leg beside it, 
and, by a curling twist, eased the strain on his pinioned 
arm. His yellow fangs fixed themselves in his enemy*s 
shoulder. His free hand clawed for the blue eyes. 

Douglas released his arm-hold, evaded the gouging 
nails by a backward jerk of the head, got both hands 
to his foe’s throat, tore him loose. Both scrambled to 
their knees and up on their feet. Both struck with 
savage fists at the same instant. Both blows landed. 

Squarely between the eyes Snake’s knotty fist 


72 


CAT^O’-MOVNTAIN 


cracked. Douglas saw a red flash, followed by float¬ 
ing rings of flame. His own knuckles tingled from 
their impact with a bristly chin. Vaguely he saw the 
face beyond the wavering fire-spots fade backward. 
His other fist, swinging for it, hit nothing. 

For an instant he dug his knuckles into his eyes, 
trying to clear his sight. Then he squinted around. 
Snake was down again, clawing at the ground, trying 
to rise. He jumped for him—stubbed a toe against 
an unnoticed rock—stumbled and sprawled. 

As he pushed himself up, raging. Snake got to his 
haunches and lurched at him in a clinch. Douglas 
threw himself into the wiry arms and grappled for a 
hold of his own. And then for a few minutes it was 
a straining, kicking, punching rough-and-tumble, each 
fighting with all he had. 

Again and again each secured a throat-hold but 
lost it. Over they rolled, kicking whenever a foot 
came free, slugging with either fist or both, striving 
to dash each other’s head against stone or root, heav¬ 
ing and wrenching until they had tumbled out of the 
brush and into the trail where they had first stood. 
In Douglas grew amazement at the strength and en¬ 
durance of his antagonist. In Snake’s brain gnawed 
a keener fear of the man on whom he had exhausted 
in vain every foul trick he knew. Neither could quite 
overcome the other. Both were gasping and growing 
dizzy from the violence of their combat. And they 
fought on. 

Suddenly, in a final squirming spasm. Snake twisted 
himself free. Before Douglas could clutch him again 


THE KNOCK-OUT 


J3 


he had rolled away and was shoving himself up. The 
blond man got his feet under him and pitched to a ' 
stand. Then, too short of breath to renew the duel at 
once, they balanced themselves and glowered. 

Snake was a hard sight, and Douglas was not much 
better. The hillman’s face was gashed by cuts and 
smeared with mingled blood and tobacco-juice, his 
right eye was shut, his mouth was a blubbery pulp, his 
clothes hung in rags. The other’s bloodshot eyes 
gleamed between puffy lids, his nose leaked a red 
drizzle, his light hair was stained from a cut scalp and 
full of dirt, his shirt was ripped to the waist and 
crimsoned at the shoulder where Snake’s teeth had 
sunk. But neither saw anything except the menace 
in the other’s eyes. 

The same thought came to both—probably born in 
the vindictive brain of Snake and involuntarily trans¬ 
mitted by his look: the thought of the gun leaning 
against the pack. True, it was “newfangled,” and 
Douglas knew it was locked against discharge; but in 
a fight a gun is not only a gun but a steel bar and a 
club. It was behind its owner, and a swift dash past 
him might make Snake its master. He attempted the 
dash. 

Without the slightest preliminary movement he was 
speeding past Douglas. But the latter was not asleep. 
Pivoting on a heel, he swung a round-arm blow flush 
under the passing jaw. 

The shock was terrific. Between the impetus of 
Snake’s plunge and the body-drive of the punch, the 
impact was more than doubled. The slugging arm 


74 


CAT’O^'MOUNTAIN 


dropped, numb to the shoulder. Snake also dropped 
—numb all over. 

His feet left the ground, and he straightened back¬ 
ward in the air. Flat on his back he struck, arms at 
his sides, legs stretched nerveless, head a little to the 
right, blank face turned to the brush. There he lay 
without a quiver of life. 

Douglas stood peering down, slowly swinging his 
numbed arm at his side. Minutes passed. His breath¬ 
ing grew normal; his arm lost its wooden feeling. 
Somewhere a bird chirped noisily. Up from the un¬ 
seen chasm of the Traps idled a new breeze, bearing 
the music of the far-oif hammers. The warm sun 
beat down on the two men. Still Snake Sanders lay 
motionless. 

The swollen-eyed man above him trod tentatively 
on a grimy hand. It gave no answering twitch. He 
stooped, studied the face, put a thumb on the left lid, 
pushed it up, and peered at the eyeball. Then he 
stood up, unconsciously rubbing his thumb against his 
shirt. 

‘‘ Well, Mister Snake Sanders,” he said grimly, if 
I were you and you were I, you’d drag me over to the 
edge and pitch me off to smash on the rocks, most 
likely. That’s what I ought to do to you. But I don’t 
happen to be built along those lines. Just what can a 
white man do with a reptile like you under such cir¬ 
cumstances ? ” 

The problem remained unanswered, though he ran a 
hand repeatedly through his thick hair and frowned 
down at the body. 


THE KNOCK-OUT 


75 


If I could only have hit you harder, maybe you’d 
die of a broken neck,” he mused. “€’ve known such 
things to happen. But I did the best I could, and 
you’ll live just the same. The dearil takes care of his 
own, anyway.” 

Slowly he turned and walked to his pack. Delib¬ 
erately he got into the straps, wincing as the injured 
shoulder came under pressure. 

“ Must wash that place well when I reach the creek,” 
he muttered, or I’ll get blood-poisoning. Guess a 
complete bath wouldn’t be inappropriate.” 

He settled the pack, gripped his gun, stepped to the 
edge of the brush, and picked up his hat. Then he 
looked again at the silent Snake. 

“ On the whole, I think I have a good deal the best 
of it,” he declared. “ Your little copperhead trick did 
me no harm, and I know a lot more now than if you 
hadn’t tried it. Yes, a whole lot. As for damages to 
our respective complexions and temperaments, I’m no 
worse off than you; and in the matter of general con¬ 
dition you’re certainly much worse than I. So we’ll 
call it quits—for the present.” 

He plodded away. But after a few steps he looked 
back with a hard smile. 

** Besides,” he concluded, ** I was forgetting. Our 
young friend Steve has some business to settle with 
you. His account is three years old—maybe more— 
and mine has only just begun. So you’re Steve’s 
meat. Snake. Steve’s meat.” 


CHAPTER VII 


A MAN MEETS A MAN 

Along the Clove road plodded a man with a battered 
face and a torn shirt, toting a pack and a gun. The 
face was not so much disfigured as it had been awhile 
ago, for it had just been laved in the cold, clear water 
of Coxing Kill; but it still bore obvious marks of 
conflict, chief of which was a pair of puffy eyes ringed 
by darkening discolorations. The rent shirt gaped at 
every stride, disregarded by its wearer, who swung 
along as if careless of the opinions of others. Judging 
from his gait, he knew where he was going and 
purposed to reach his destination before early sun¬ 
down should cut off the light from his ridge-flanked 
road. 

Behind him, perhaps a quarter-mile back, another 
man was riding in the same direction on the same 
road. A big-framed, eagle-nosed, long-jawed old man 
he was, with white mustache drooping around his 
mouth and ragged wisps of snowy hair sticking out 
from under his nondescript felt hat. His shoulders, 
though humped up as he lounged forward on the reins 
lying loosely along the back of a white horse, were 
wide and bulky; and the gnarled hands holding those 
reins were corded with sinew. Seventy if a day, he 
still looked powerful enough to handle many a man 

76 


7.7 


A MAN MEETS A MAN 

of half his years; and the direct gaze of his steely blue 
eyes betokened fearlessness of heart, simplicity of 
nature, and honesty of soul. 

Neither of the two men saw the other. Between 
them intervened windings of the tree-lined road; the 
tramping man cast no glance behind, and the one fol¬ 
lowing was not looking for him. Each in his own little 
cloud of dust, the pair ambled on and drew steadily 
nearer to a dingy house, behind which a man and a 
woman were harvesting corn. 

At the swinging approach of the pack-bearer the 
couple halted their toil and squinted at -him. He 
waved a jaunty hand. Neither of the harvesters an¬ 
swered the friendly gesture. In slouching attitudes 
they stood, wooden-faced, watching him pass. With 
a careless smile he looked them over, then turned his 
gaze forward and ignored them. 

Had he been let alone, he would have passed without 
a word and speedily forgotten them. But, though the 
couple made no threatening move, they had animals 
which did. With a sudden bound three dogs appeared 
from nowhere and silently rushed at him. 

They were treacherous-looking mongrel beasts, and 
their teeth gleamed wickedly as they came. The man 
halted—took one comprehensive look—stepped back 
and lifted his gun. 

“Call 'em off!" he barked. “Call 'em or bury 
'em!" 

A shrill shriek of command burst from the woman. 
A sour snarl broke from the man. At the sound of 
the shrewish voice and the menace of the gun the 


78 CAT'O’^MOUNTAIN 

dogs slowed abruptly. But they growled, and they did 
not turn back. 

Call ’em off, I said! ” commanded the man behind 
the gun. “ When I say off I mean off! Drive them 
back and tie them up! ” 

Instead, the man advanced, muttering. His brown 
face, of distinctly negro cast, was ugly; and he still 
gripped his corn-knife—an abbreviated scythe, short- 
handled, which would be a fearful weapon at close 
quarters. The dogs, emboldened by his approach, be¬ 
gan slipping forward again. 

“ You can keep back too,” the stranger warned. 
“ This gun is likely to scatter right at you. Take those 
beasts away quick if you want them to live. I won’t 
say it again.” 

“ Shoot them dawgs an’ ye won’t git fur from here,” 
the other snarled throatily. But he paused, and at the 
cessation of his steps the brutes also stopped. The 
woman still stood in the com. 

Just then the white horse and its white-haired driver 
came jogging around a bushy turn. The old man sat 
up with sudden energy, involuntarily jerking at the 
reins. The horse stopped. 

One swift survey the old man took. Then his right 
hand shot to the whip-socket, and with awkward speed 
he clambered out into the road. 

” Nat I ” he yelled explosively. ” Git them dawgs 
in or I’ll give the hull pack o’ ye a hidin’! Shoot ’em 
if ye want, stranger—they ain’t none of ’em no good! ” 

Douglas, his finger already tightening on one trigger, 
held his fire and flicked a glance sidewise to see what 


A MAN MBBTjS a MAN 


79 


sort of man was coming. He found the old fellow 
running nimbly toward him, reversing his whip so that 
its heavy butt was foremost. At that instant the man 
Nat, his eyes glinting viciously, hissed at the dogs. 

Look ou-u-ut! yelled the oncoming driver. 

In the nick of time Douglas turned his eyes back— 
just as a dog left the ground in a fang-grinning leap. 
The other two were crouching. The blond man jerked 
his gun a little downward to meet the rising body. 
The dog's breast struck against the muzzles. Teeth 
clashed in a fierce snap. From the gim burst a muffled 
roar. The dog was blown backward. 

Under the impact of dog and powder-recoil Douglas 
staggered. But he gave no ground and lost no time. 
His second finger released the other hidden hammer at 
an upshooting shape. In a crashing flare another 
hairy form whirled over and flopped to earth. 

At the same instant teeth stung his left side. A 
sudden weight on his shirt yanked him almost off 
balance. Under his arm he found the wicked face of 
the third hound. Then a black streak appeared on that 
dog’s head, a resounding thwack hit Douglas’ ears, 
and the beast dangled limp, held up only by its teeth, 
which were caught in the cloth. 

“ I told ye, Nat—I told ye! ” panted the old man, 
whose whip-butt had knocked out that third dog. “ I 

been tellin’ ye right ’long- Git back, ye yeller 

hound! ” 

Mouthing an inarticulate oath, the owner of the dogs 
himself was now jumping forward, face convulsed and 
corn-hook lifted. Whether he was attacking Douglas 



80 


CAT-O’-MOUNTAIN 


or his aged rescuer neither stopped to ascertain. Both 
acted. The empty shotgun jabbed for the assailant's 
face, the barrels crunching solidly against his fore¬ 
head. The whip-butt swung down with the force of a 
blackjack on his crown. His eyes rolled, his legs 
caved, and he fell. 

The young man and the old one swept their sur¬ 
roundings. Two dogs were fairly blown apart. The 
third still hung limp from Douglas' shirt. The man 
lay in a queer huddle, his corn-hook sticking in the 
ground beside him, where it had fallen on its point. 
The woman, shrieking with rage, now was running 
at them with a similar blade. 

** I told ye, Nat," the old man said harshly, as if the 
fallen man could hear him, “ if ye didn't learn them 
dogs manners or tie 'em up somebody'd fix 'em. I 
told ye I'd do it myself the next time they come for 
me. Ye can say g'by to this here one too." 

Wherewith he clutched the dangling hound by the 
scruff of the neck and, in one wrench, tore it away 
from Douglas' shirt. He flung it down, hopped up, 
and landed with all his weight on the brute's neck. 
Under his heavy brogans sounded a crack of bones. 

“ 'Lizy, ye better hold yer bosses," he coolly cau¬ 
tioned the woman, now close at hand. “ I don't want 
to handle ye rough, but sure's God made little apples 
I'll crack ye one 'less'n ye drop that 'ere cawn-hook. 
I'm a-warnin* ye.” 

The thin-faced female, whose coarse hair and high 
cheek-bones hinted strongly at Indian blood, screamed 
out again. She burst into a torrent of vituperation 


A MAN MEETS A MAN 


81 


that brought a red wave across the face of the younger 
man and a corresponding flush into the leathery cheeks 
of his fighting-mate. But she made no attack with the 
ugly blade in her hand. Standing over the huddled 
Nat, her bony bare toes digging at the turf like the 
claws of a cat, she vented her fury in language which 
would have brought swift physical retaliation if she 
had been a man. And the pair stood silent and took it. 

“ Ye’ll pay for them pups, Eb Wilham—ye’ll pay 
dear! ” she foamed at the last. “ Nat’ll take it outen 
ye I Him an’ Snake’ll fix ye—an’ ye too, ye sneakin’ 
’tective I Ye mizzable pair o’ sneakers, ye better live 
together an’ sleep together an’ watch out fer each 
other now! ” 

She bent and squinted at her mate. The two men 
looked suddenly at each other. The hillman stared as 
if seeing the other for the first time. The newcomer 
stared straight back, taking his first comprehensive 
view of the two-handed old fellow and realizing what 
the woman’s threat signified. For a minute old blue 
eye and young blue eye held straight and steady. Then 
on each mouth quirked a smile. 

“If you’ve run out of words. I’ll say a few my¬ 
self,” clipped Douglas, turning to the woman. “ If 
there’s any more trouble coming from this it comes to 
me, not to him. I never saw him before, and he 
doesn’t know me. So you can tell your nigger man to 
take it out on me. As for Snake, I knocked him cold 
awhile ago and I can do it again. I’ll be around here 
for some time, and anybody wanting the same dose 
Snake got can come and get it. That’s all.” 


82 


CAT‘0’’M0V1^TAIN 


He nodded to the old man and turned away. He 
took three steps before Eb Wilham stopped him. 

‘‘ Hoi’ on 1 ” the latter exploded in the abrupt way 
that seemed habitual. “ I’m a-travelin’ your way. If 
ye want a ride, set in. ’Lizy, git some sense. This 
feller’s right—I dunno him. But I’m a-goin’ to know 
him if he’s willin’. An’ as fur’s Nat an’ Snake’s 
concerned, I been takin’ care o’ myself seventy-three 
year an’ I figger to keep on doin’ it. What say, 
stranger? Walk or ride? ” 

Ride, if it doesn’t get you into trouble,” Douglas 
acquiesced. 

‘‘No trouble. Snakes an’ yeller dawgs has bit at me 
before an’ I ain’t dead. Chk! Hoss, g’yapalong! 
G’yap, I tell ye! ” 

The white horse, sedately cropping grass, took a 
few last bites, and came obediently. His master 
climbed spryly into the weather-beaten wagon and 
rolled an equally weather-beaten thumb at the rear. 
Douglas heaved his pack in behind and swung himself 
to the seat beside the driver. 

The sharp-faced female screamed out with a fresh 
burst of abuse. Old Eb’s mouth tightened, and he 
lightly touched the horse with his whip. The animal 
jumped in an astonished way and began slowly, heavily 
pounding along the road. Woman, man, dogs and 
house disappeared behind in a drifting cloud of 
dust. 

“ Ain’t no use listenin’ or talkin’ to a mad woman,” 
Eb barked conversationally. “ Ain’t no use into it at 
all. XJh—right fine weather we’re a-havin’, stranger.” 


A MAN MBNTS A MAN 83 

“ Right fine,” agreed Douglas. “ Aren’t you worried 
about riding with a detective, Mr. Wilham ? ” 

The keen eyes shot at him and returned to the horse. 

“Not a mite. I ride with who I want to. Folks 
that’s scairt o’ detectives mostly has some reason to be. 
I ain’t got no reason.” 

“ Found—one honest man in the Traps,” laughed 
Douglas. 

- “ That ain’t nothin’,” Eb retorted. “ Folks is mostly 
honest round here. Good hard-workin’ fellers. Don’t 
jedge the rest of us by them Oakses. Or Snake San¬ 
ders. Did ye say ye licked Snake ? ” 

Getting no answer at once, he took another survey 
of his passenger. Douglas was staring at the road. 
So the hard pair behind were “ them Oakses ”—the 
parents of the catamount girl! 

“ Er—oh, yes. Laid him out on top of that ledge 
back yonder. Ought to have thrown him off. But I 
didn’t.” 

The horse thumped out a dozen steps while Eb di¬ 
gested this. 

“ Ye’re right, stranger. Snake’s a bad ’un. Ye 
must o’ had a hard tussle—Snake ain’t easy to handle.” 
The shrewd eyes took in the battered face. “Up 
top o’ Dickabar, hey ? Hum! ” 

He became abstracted. The horse jogged on, stead¬ 
ily eating up distance. The silence grew strained. 

“ Mr. Wilham, I’m no detective,” Douglas asserted. 
“ I’m just a rambler who blundered in here. My 
name’s Douglas Hampton. I’m not after anybody, and 
I’m staying awhile just because I like this country. I 


84 


CAT^O’-MOUl^TAIIl 


don’t know who started this fool story that I’m a de¬ 
tective, and I don’t care much. But now I’m here, I’ll 
stay until I’m ready to go—unless I get starved out; 
I haven’t much left to eat. That’s all there is to it. 
Believe it or not. It’s true.” 

The heavy hoofs beat another measure. 

“ I believe ye,” aggressively. I know how ye feel. 
I'm full o' that same kind o' cussedness myself. 
There's some folks round here that’s ignorant and 
scairt of any new feller, and there’s some that’s got 
reasons besides bein' ignorant. I ain’t sayin’ who they 
be; I ain’t talkin' 'bout my neighbors even if I don’t 
like some of ’em. But seein’ it’s gone round that ye’re 
a detective, 'most everybody'll believe it, an' ye better 
act accordin'—kind o’ go careful, I mean. Where ye 
stayin' ? Anywheres special ? ” 

“ Up in the rocks last night. Thought I might find 
a house I could live in down here. Know of any? ” 

“ Hum. Wal, we're a-comin’ to a house, but I don’t 
think ye’d want it. It's—uh—^kind o' lonesome. Folks 
says there's some funny things into it. There 'tis 
now.” 

They emerged from a tunnel of trees, and Douglas 
looked at a house which he knew must be that of Jake 
Dalton. It was at the left of the road, in a clearing 
rank with uncut grass, behind which rose forest headed 
by two giant pines. It was a little box of a place, not 
more than twenty feet square; weather-worn, with 
patched roof and tiny sagging porch. The small bare 
windows gaped black and blank at the forest cordon. 
The door stood ajar, as if the latest occupant had left 


A 3IAN MBBTjS a MAN 85 

in haste. About it hung an air of abandonment, of 
desolation, of forbidding loneliness. 

“ Looks all right to me,'' declared Douglas. “ Not 
very cheerful, but I'll try it one night, anyway. 
Whoa!" 

Eb drew the reins. The horse stopped. Douglas 
got out and lifted his pack. The old man sat soberly 
staring at the house. 

“ I dunno," he muttered. “ I dunno. Stranger, ye 
better ride on a piece." 

“ Where to ? " 

Um—I dunno. Mebbe somebody'd sleep ye. I’d 
do it myself, but I’m a-goin' to High Falls an' I ain't 
cornin’ back to-night.” 

“ Thanks. I appreciate it just the same. But I 
reckon I’ll stop here for the night. Much obliged to 
you, Mr. Wilham, for the ride, and more for helping 
me against those dogs." 

“ 'Tain’t nothin',” was the hasty disclaimer. Them 
dawgs ought to been kilt long ago—I give Nat warnin' 
more’n once. An’ don’t call me Mister. I ain’t used 
to it. 'Most everybody calls me Uncle Eb.” 

“ All right. Uncle Eb,” smiled the other. 

The bright old eyes dwelt on him, and an answering 
smile lifted the white mustache. 

** Gorry, ye look funny with them eyes all bunged 
up,” chuckled Eb. “ Snake’s got a hard fist, ain’t he ? 
I wisht I could been a peewee bird up into a tree an' 
seen that fight. It must of been good. Wal, son, if 
ye can lick Snake mebbe ye can handle whatever ye 
see round this house. I’ll stop here an’ visit with ye 


86 


CAT-O^^MOUNTAIN 


to-morrer, mebbe, when I come back. Shall I fetch 
ye some food from High Falls ? ” 

“ I wish you would. Lots of it. And some to¬ 
bacco.” 

“ Smokin' or chawin' ? '' 

“ Smoking. And for food get whatever comes 
handy. I’m not fussy.” 

He drew out a small wallet. Uncle Eb waved it 
aside. 

Pay me when ye git yer stuff, boy. I dunno yit 
what it’ll cost. I’ll git jest what I’d buy for myself. 
Then if—if ye ain’t here to-morrer I can use it to 
home. G’by. G’yapalong! ” 

The hoofs hammered again into the sand. In a 
fresh cloud of dust the rickety wagon rolled away and 
was gone among the trees beyond. 

Douglas shoved his wallet back into its pocket and 
stood a minute eyeing the little house glooming under 
the solemn pines. Then, reaching to his pack, he 
pulled from under its straps his coat. From that gar¬ 
ment he drew two buckshot shells. Coolly he reloaded 
his gun. 

“I reckon I'll be here to-morrow when you come 
back. Uncle Eb,” he muttered. “ Now^ Mister Ha'nt, 
let's get acquainted.” 


CHAPTER VIII 

THE HA’nT 

Sunset stretched its long shadows again across the 
Traps. 

Up on the heights, the light of day still was bright 
and clear. But down in the bluff-bulwarked valley 
of the Coxing Kill, a thousand feet lower than the 
Minnewaska table-land behind which the sun was roll¬ 
ing down in the southwest, the dusk was slowly shad¬ 
ing into dark. Already the air vibrated with the 
swelling chorus of the katydids, scraping out their in¬ 
sistent warning of frost which had not yet come; and 
from every grassy space cheeped the lonesome dirge 
of the crickets. Night was drawing on. 

Down on the diminutive stoop of a little house be¬ 
side the Clove road, a man stirred and glanced around 
him with a frown. The steadily increasing clack of 
the big green bush-bugs and the growing chill of even¬ 
tide had routed the thoughts which he had been draw¬ 
ing through the stem of a blackened but empty pipe— 
thoughts which, to judge from his absent gaze and the 
half-smile on his lips, were more pleasant than those 
now obtruding themselves. He shook his shoulders as 
if to dislodge the night chill settling there. Abruptly 
he stood up. 

His swift survey swept the little fallow field at his 
right, where the black choristers of the grass were 

87 


88 


CAT-O^-MOUNTAII^ 


chirping away among the unseen roots; the narrow 
sand-track of road, empty of all but thickening 
shadows; the darkling mass of trees and brush at his 
left. Then he pivoted and peered into the darkness 
lying beyond a door which had been standing open at 
his back. 

Nothing showed in the room beyond—nothing, that 
is, which should hold the fixed attention of a man; 
nothing alive. Vaguely, in the wan light still enter¬ 
ing through the cracked panes of a curtainless side 
window, he could see a rickety table with one leg 
broken, a chair minus a back, a little rusty stove, and, 
in one corner, a jumble of small things recently 
dumped from his pack. Along a wall which started 
beside the open doorway showed the faint outlines of 
three more doors, all in a row. And that was all. 

Nothing, surely, in such a scene need make this man ^ 
listen keenly and half lift the shotgun in one fist. Yet ) 
he stood there for a long minute, searching the room 
repeatedly, then centering his gaze on the first of those 
three doors in the wall. That door stood open. And 
the queer chill between his shoulder-blades was not all 
due to the coolness following the sinking of the sun: 
it was that clammy feeling inherited by mankind 
through countless generations—the subconscious warn¬ 
ing that a hidden menace lurks behind the back. And 
his ears subtly corroborated the caution of his nerves. 
Despite the clamor of the insects, he could have sworn 
that in the first room there at the right he had heard 
a slight rustle. 

That room was the bedroom. It was a mere cubby- 


THE HA^NT 


89 


hole, not more than seven feet square, containing only 
a crude bed and a lamp-shelf, both fixed. The bed¬ 
stead, which the new tenant had inspected and decided 
to use, apparently had been built in the room by the 
former owner; a solid contrivance of boards and hard¬ 
wood posts, with interlaced ropes serving as a spring, 
and a noisy mattress of corn-husks. Head, foot, and 
one side were snug against three of the walls, leaving 
only a yard-wide space between bed and door. At the 
foot was the one tiny window of the room. 

To enter that sleeping-closet, anything must go 
through the door or the window. The window now 
stood open, for Douglas had forced up its cobwebby 
frame after sweeping the floor as best he could with 
a stubby old broom found in the grass; but that open¬ 
ing was within ten feet of his left hand as he sat on 
the steps, and nothing could possibly have gone in 
there without his knowledge. Still less could anything 
have gone past him through the door. Yet he felt in 
his marrow that something was there. 

With slow, careful shifting of his balance he stole 
across the meagre stoop. Not a board creaked, not a 
sound did his descending soles make. With the same 
stealth he leaned against the door-jamb and inched his 
head inside. At length, braced by hands against the 
wall, he was leaning far in and peering through that 
right-hand door. In the dimness beyond stood no liv¬ 
ing thing. 

Until his arm-muscles began to ache he hung there; 
and never a sound came to him from within. Yet his 
nerves continued to deliver their warning. In that 


90 


CAT-O’-MOUNTAIN 


room where Jake Dalton had slept was something; 
something besides the bed and the bare lamp-shelf; 
invisible, intangible, but— something! 

He drew back and glanced around once more. The 
dusk was drawing around the little clearing a closer 
cordon of gloom; an eerie whisper came from the 
pines, swept by a gusty wind; the throb of insects re¬ 
sounded as before. Nothing moved. He felt for a 
match. When he had it, he stepped heavily into the 
house and tramped over to his gas-lamp, hanging on a 
nail; turned its valve, shook it up, and waited for the 
water and carbide to mingle and form the gas. In the 
brief interval of waiting he watched all around and 
rapidly reviewed his movements since opening that 
window. 

He had explored the place, finding at the second 
door a stairway leading into a dusty loft littered with 
dead wasps; at the third, a room even smaller than the 
bedroom, partly filled with stove-wood. Outside he 
had found a well, in which the water seemed good, and 
a little shed holding only a broken barrel or two, bur¬ 
lap bags, an empty jug, and similar trash. Both door 
and window had been open while he made his inspec¬ 
tion; but he had returned to the bedroom and tossed 
his blankets on the mattress, and nothing new was 
there then. And since that time he had not been more 
than ten feet from it. 

The fumes of gas struck his nostrils. He lit the 
match and touched it to the little nozzle. White and 
bright, the flame lit up the place. He strode into the 
bedroom. 


THE HA’NT 


91 


Absolutely nothing new was there. With a self- 
derisive grin, he stooped and glanced under the bed. 
The floor was bare. 

“ Now are you satisfied, you timid old woman?'' he 
jeered. “ What's the matter with you, anyhow? Get¬ 
ting nerves ? " 

His words hollowly mocked him from the outer 
room. With a disgusted snort he turned away. Boots 
thumping defiantly, he clattered back to the three- 
legged table, shoved its crippled side against the wall, 
kicked the backless chair up to it, and set the lamp on 
it. To the little pile in the corner he went, and from 
it he extracted the dry remainder of a bread-loaf and 
a paper-wrapped chunk of cheese. Then he returned 
and sat down, hitching around in the chair to get his 
back toward a windowless wall. 

** All the same," he meditated, sawing off a slice of 
bread with his jack-knife, “ if I stay here long I'll have 
to make some improvements. For one thing, that bed¬ 
room is too darned handy. Window opens right on 
the road. So does the front door. No curtains on 
any of these windows, no key for that door. With 
Snake Sanders and Nat Oaks both thirsting for my 
gore and undoubtedly acquainted with the position of 
that bed—yes, I reckon I'd better move up-stairs or 
something. No use in lying meekly down and inviting 
a fistful of shot to come in and mess me up. No sense 
in sitting here in the light now, either." 

He turned off the gas-flow, set the lamp under the 
table, and fell to munching his meagre provender. 

However, I'm safe enough in that room to-night,” 


92 


CAT-O^-MOVl^TAIII 


he told himself. “ Nobody knows I’m here except 
Uncle Eb, who isn’t coming back until to-morrow— 
and maybe little Miss Marion, who isn’t likely to tell. 
There’s nothing in that room but imagination, and 
imagination won’t keep me very wide awake. Ho- 
hum ! I’m going to sleep like a log this night.” 

He arose, dipped a cup of well-water from his 
canvas pail dangling from a nail in a low ceiling-beam, 
washed down his food, and reseated himself. 

“ Yes, sir,” he informed the loneliness, carving an¬ 
other chunk of cheese, “ this is my night to sleep. 
Last night I sprawled between two rocks, and the night 
before I lost a lot of repose watching those backwoods 
detectives prowl around and spy on me from the 
bushes down beside the creek. Things have been com¬ 
ing right fast in the last three days. Before that I’d 
never been inside that wall of cliffs over yonder. And 
now I’ve killed a catamount, assisted at the demise of 
three dogs, knocked one eminent citizen stiff and 
helped send another to sleep; made two able-bodied 
enemies and one potential friend—Uncle Eb—and 
given love’s young dream a boost along the rocks to 
a new hide-out. Oh, yes, and assisted an escaped 
conv-” 

He bit off the last word, suddenly aware that he was 
talking aloud and recalling the ancient proverb to the 
effect that walls sometimes listen. Gloom now sur¬ 
rounded him, for the slow-dying gas flame had sunk 
to a little blue button on its nozzle. Rising again, he 
tiptoed to the door and spied around. No lurking 
form was near. 



TEE EA^ET 93 

“ Guess that will be about enough talking/’ he con¬ 
cluded. 

He drew back and shut the door. Stepping across 
the room, he found the table, brought it over, and set 
it against the door so that the slightest push from out¬ 
side would tip it over with a warning clatter. Then he 
went along the walls, tested the windows and a rear 
door—all of which were warped into immovability— 
and, carrying his gun and the chair, retired to the 
gloomy bedroom. There he placed gun and chair be¬ 
side the bed, and on the chair he laid matches. After 
frowning thoughtfully at the open window he sighed 
and closed it. 

Deliberately he undressed and rolled up in his blan¬ 
kets. For a minute or two he lay reveling in his free¬ 
dom from clothing and the yielding embrace of the 
crackling but comfortable old mattress. Then the first 
grateful feeling of physical comfort passed. He lifted 
his head from the rolled-up coat forming his pillow, 
and turned his dilating eyes around. Over him was 
creeping a feeling of oppression, of inability to obtain 
air; and, worse yet, a panicky sensation that he was in 
a trap. 

The blankets were snug and warm; yet that queer 
chill was crawling over him again. The air was fresh 
and clean; yet he opened his mouth as if stifled. 
Around him lay silence and blackness, intensified 
rather than relieved by the deadened chorus of insects 
outside and the lighter shade of the window. He 
turned suddenly on a side. At the loud rustle of the 
husks under him he jumped half erect. 


94 CAT-^O’-MOUIITAIl^ 

A moment he poised; then he flung himself angrily 
back. 

“ You idiot! he muttered. “ You miss the stars 
overhead and the little night breezes around; that’s 
all. You’re in a house, and you’ll have to get used to 
it. Go to sleep, you fool! ” 

He shut his eyes and forced himself to breathe 
regularly. But through his brain streaked the 
thought: 

You're in a dead man's bed I You don't know 
what killed him ! You -” 

'' Oh, shut up! ” he growled aloud, bouncing over 
on the other side. “.What’s that to me? I’m going 
to sleep! ” 

For a few minutes he stubbornly held his position. 
But he was lying now with his back to the open door 
into the main room, and the creepy feeling at his 
shoulder-blades became intolerable. He turned again. 
But this time he made the movement deliberately, and 
at the repeated crackle of the mattress he grinned. 
After blinking at the dark a minute he relaxed, warm 
once more at the back, his eyes closing naturally. 

Rapidly his fatigue asserted itself. With the muffled 
lullaby of the crickets swinging rhythmically on, he 
lost himself. 

Hours passed. He slept peacefully on, changing his 
position a little at intervals, unconscious of his move¬ 
ments or of anything else. Then, all at once, he found 
himself up on an elbow, staring wide-eyed into the 
dark. 

Something had moved. It seemed that the bed it- 



TEE HA’ET 95 

self was quivering slightly. Yet there was no sound 
near him—no new sound anywhere- 

What was that? There was a sound now—^but not 
in the room. It was up overhead—up in the empty 
attic; a sound of muffled footfalls, deliberately cross¬ 
ing the floor; a sound like that of bare heels going 
quietly across the boards. It traveled to and fro, as if 
an undressed man were wandering aimlessly^ Then 
it began to come down-stairs. 

A bump, and it stopped. Another bump; another 
pause. Then two soft bumps telling of a couple more 
stairs descended. It was the sound of a man stealing 
quietly down, halting to listen for any noise below; a 
man not deft enough to put his weight on his toes 
and avoid the bump of heels. Yet the stairs did not 
creak as they would under the weight of a man. 

Very quietly, Douglas moved over and found a 
match. With the same stealth he opened the gas- 
valve of his lamp. While he waited for the acetylene 
flow he heard the heels reach the lowest step. He 
listened for the stealthy turning of the knob and the 
creak of door-hinges. They did not come. 

Cracking the match on his thumb-nail, he lit the gas 
and shot its ray outward. Nothing met his gaze— 
nothing but the table against the outer door. Softly 
he lowered his feet, gripped his gun, and arose. Rea¬ 
son told him no man could be in that attic; but his 
ears positively asserted that a man had come down 
those stairs. 

On his toes he drifted outward. In the main room 
he saw no living thing. Quietly he set the lamp on 



96 


CAT‘0’-M0U1^TAI^ 


the floor, its beam glaring at the stair door. With a 
swift grab he turned the knob and tore the door open. 
Then, gun leveled, he stood and gaped. 

The stairway was utterly empty. 


CHAPTER IX 


DALTON’S DEATH 

A LONG minute dragged by while Douglas stood 
there, the drone of the crickets gnawing at his nerves. 
Then he pounced at the lamp and bounded up the 
stairs. At the top he halted an'd glared around the 
attic. 

Nothing was there. 

The tiny windows at either end, heavily coated with 
spider-webs, were shut as usual. Not a web was 
broken. Nowhere, except where one little pane had 
long been missing, could he see any opening into the 
barren room. He moved about, and the boards groaned 
loudly under him. They had not groaned under that 
ghostly unknown. 

He returned down the stairs, and the steps creaked 
and squeaked as he passed. He slammed the door 
and went about the room, inspecting every door and 
window. All was as he had left it on retiring. He 
even glanced into the little wood-room. That, too, 
was unchanged. 

“ H’m 1 ” he muttered. Pausing at the water-bag, 
he gulped a drink. After once more staring around, 
he returned to the bedroom. 

Back into his tumbled blankets he got. As the 
strangled flame of his lamp slowly died he reached 

97 


98 


CAT^O’-MOUNTAIN 


to his trousers, dug out his watch, and glanced at it. 
It was now eight minutes after midnight. 

“ H’m! ” he repeated as he lay back. 

For some time after the light had expired he lay 
wide-eyed. No further sound came from stairs or 
attic. In the solid blackness he discerned nothing. 
At length he grinned. 

** Guess I’ve laid you for the night. Mister Ha’nt,” 
he whispered. 

As if in answer, the bed quivered again. The feel¬ 
ing was as if some man standing beside him had rested 
a hand on the headboard—a barely perceptible tremor. 
He had not moved a muscle. Nor, suddenly frozen, 
did he move one now. He lay absolutely still, only his 
eyes moving. 

Another quiver came. With it came a faint dry 
rustle. Nerves and straining ears alike flashed the 
same message: it was the corn-husk mattress now! 
The movement, the sound, were beside him, almost 
under him—as if a bodiless man were laying himself 
down to rest side by side with the live one! 

With lightning speed Douglas turned and struck at 
the Thing. His knuckles crashed against the old cloth 
and its content of husks. Again he struck, this time 
into the air. With a dive he launched himself at the 
chair—clutched matches—scratched them. The yel¬ 
low blaze showed that the room was empty of all life 
but his own. 

Scrambling out, he lit fresh matches and scanned 
the floor under the bed. Then he wheeled and looked 
all about the outer room. All was as before. 


DALTOWB DEATH 


99 


The matches burned his fingers, and he dropped 
them. Again blackness and vacancy engulfed him. 
Groping, he found the bed and lay down. Then he 
reached out, found his gun, and laid it beside him. 
And this time he did not roll up in his blankets. He 
only draped one of them loosely over him, and kept a 
hand on the gun. 

‘‘ Come again, Mister Ha’nt,” he muttered. 

Only the monotonous chorus outside answered. For 
a long time he lay waiting, his nerves gradually re¬ 
laxing. At length, still loosely holding the weapon, he 
dozed away into slumber. 

He awoke as if struck by a blow. A heavy thump 
had shocked him awake. Instantly he knew what 
caused it. The table against the outer door had been 
pushed over. The damp night air was sweeping in. 

His gun leaped up. Its muzzles licked toward the 
entrance. One barrel vomited flame and lead. 

The flare of the explosion lit up the portal. It 
stood ajar, but not wide enough to admit a man. Nor 
was any man standing there. Outside was only black, 
cavernous night. 

His ears numbed by the concussion of the shell, he 
squatted there in the blankets, the other barrel ready 
for instantaneous use. Presently his stunned auditory 
nerves regained their acuteness. They told him some¬ 
thing that brought a new chill crawling down his back. 
The song of the insects no longer swung through the 
night And out there on the steps sounded a dull, 
slow drip — drip — drip^ 

With measured beat that dread sound hammered at 


100 


CAT-O’^MOUNTAIN 


his brain. It slowed, as if the first flow of falling 
fluid were becoming choked—or clotted. Then it 
ceased. 

Shuddering, he moved once more to the edge, groped 
about until he found his boots, and slipped his legs into 
them. Feeling again through the dark, he located his 
matches. But he did not light one. With half a dozen 
of the little light-sticks in his hand, he stepped stealthily 
to the front door. 

Long he listened, hearing nothing but a weird 
whisper of night wind among leaves. The air was 
clammy, and in it was a wet smell. He began to shiver 
again; but this time the cold was natural—the dank 
cold of dampness. Feeling about, he found a leg of 
the overturned table. On it he scratched a match, and 
out into the uncanny gloom beyond the door he darted 
the burning sliver. 

The stoop was empty. The thing he had dreaded to 
find slumped against the wall was not there. Nor were 
the old boards disfigured by any fresh red stain. 

Sorely perplexed, he ignited a new match from the 
expiring stub. As he did so a new thought struck his 
mind. Perhaps the dead thing was in the room, hud¬ 
dled beside him. He yanked the match inward—and 
found nothing but the capsized table, its legs wedging 
the door. 

As the light died down a sudden soft sound made 
him jump. It was a single drop falling on the steps 
outside. 

With a new match flaring he yanked the door open 
and strode out, angrily determined to find the source 


j 


DALTOW^ DEATH 


101 


of those soul-sickening drops. He had not far to go. 
After one straight look at the steps he flung down the 
match and laughed out in savage scorn of himself. 

The narrow steps were wet, but with nothing more 
sinister than rain. The dampness of the air, the utter 
blackness around, the silence of the insects—all told 
of a recent shower. Even now the crickets were be¬ 
ginning to chirp again. Somehow their sturdy notes, 
which previously had seemed doleful, now sounded 
cheerful. 

“ You doddering imbecile! ” he jeered. “ It's as 
simple as daylight. A little shower just before you 
woke up—a gust of wind shoving the door open—the 
drip of the eaves for a minute or so. And you, you 
hysterical half-wit—^you shoot a harmless door and 
turn into a knot of goose-flesh because of that! Who 
ever told you you were a grown-up man? You're 
nothing but a scared-of-the-dark baby! " 

He drank in a deep breath of the sweet air and 
nodded unseen encouragement to some lusty cricket in 
the grass near the stoop. But, as he turned again to¬ 
ward the door, he hesitated. Wind and rain could not 
be blamed for the footsteps on the stairs or the sounds 
and movements of his bed. Something urged him to 
take his blankets and lie down outdoors, even though 
the ground was wet: to sleep surrounded by the honest¬ 
voiced crickets, unconfined by walls within which 
stalked bodiless things. 

No!" he growled. “ Back to bed you go, and 
there you stay. This is a fight to a finish. Mister 
Ha'nt, and I've taken one round out of three, with 


102 


CAT-0’’3I0UNTAIN 


the other two drawn. I think I’ve got you on the run* 
Now let’s see if you can come back.” 

With that he felt his way in, shut the door, kicked 
the table negligently against it, and returned to bed. 

As he rearranged his blankets, heavy drops thudded 
overhead. Rapidly the spattering impacts swelled into 
a drumming roar of new rain. 

“ Aha,” he nodded. You’d look sweet out in the 
grass now, wouldn’t you? By the time you got back 
in here you’d be well soaked, and it would serve you 
right. The Lord hates a quitter. Come on, Ha’nt. 
I’m waiting.” 

He continued to wait. Steadily the rain pounded 
on, varied only by slashing swoops at the window. 
His eyes closed. His breathing slowed. The tumult 
of the storm faded out of his consciousness. 

By and by he found himself drifting over a murky 
waste of waters which swashed and hissed and gurgled 
in sullen enmity. Above was no sun or moon or star— 
nothing but a dreaiy^ void. Around was no life; he 
was utterly alone in the desolation of plunging waves, a 
derelict at the mercy of wind and tide. But presently 
weird shapes took form among the billows—ghastly, 
gigantic wraiths which mouthed hideous grimaces 
down at him and reached for him with shadowy fin¬ 
gers. They veered away before they touched him, and 
a great wind blew them apart into fragments of mist 
and spume. But they formed again, making more 
frightful spectres than before, and stalked athwart the 
waste, half seen through a roaring deluge of rain. 
They began to yell his name, and with the shouts 


DALTOW^ DEATH 103 

blended a thunder of hollow blows. He tried to yell 
back at them- 

He was in his bed again. Wan daylight was in his 
opening eyes. The noise of falling rain was real. So 
were the loud knocking and the calling of his name. 
The pounding came from the outer door, and the voice 
was that of Uncle Eb. 

“ Hey, Hampton! Hampton! Speak up if ye're 
livin'! 

He jumped from bed, shoved the table away from 
the entrance, and pulled the door open. Uncle Eb, his 
mustache drooping in a bedraggled wisp and his body 
gleaming dully in a wet rubber coat, took a sudden 
backward step. 

“ Gorry, boy! Ye scairt me, a-snakin' the door open 
so sudden. I was about gittin' ready to go 'long. 
How be ye ? " 

“ All right, thanks. Come in. Wet morning.” 

**Hornin'? It's 'most noon, son. Ye been sleepin* 
all this time? Mebbe—mebbe ye was broke of yer 
rest, though. That it ? '' 

** That’s it. You were right—there are some funny 
things around this place.” 

The old man nodded quickly, and his eyes swerved 
to the door. Following his gaze, Douglas saw that the 
panels were furrowed across by shot, and in the casing 
beyond was a splintery hole. 

I ain't a mite s'prised,” was the guarded admission. 

But git yer pants on an' don't stand here with yer 
shirt-tail a-flappin'. I got some tobacker an' so on 
into the wagon—whoa. Bob! a little more rain won't 



104 


CAT’O^^MOUNTAIJ^ 


hurt ye after what ye come through—I’ll git it right 
out. Snake on yer clo’es before ye git cold.” 

Yawning, Douglas snaked them on. By the time he 
emerged from his bedroom Uncle Eb had returned 
with a bulky box which seemed almost dry. Without 
ceremony he tramped in and dropped the box with a 
thud. 

‘"Thar she is, right side up with care an’ dry as 
Nigger Nat—^been ridin’ under a rubber blankit all the 
way. Gorry, ain’t this a rain! It’s the line storm. 
What say? Oh, four dollars an’ thutty-five cents. 
Thank ye.” 

“ Don’t thank me. Peel off your coat and light your 
pipe while I get breakfast—or luncheon, or whatever 
you want to call it. Why do you say ‘ dry as Nigger 
Nat ’ ? ” 

“ Wal-” Uncle Eb hesitated, looking toward 

the stove. ** No, I can’t stop. I got to git ’long, or 
the folks’ll think somebody waylaid me—I’d oughter 
be to home now. Nat? Oh, that’s jest a sayin’we’ve 
got round here—‘ dry as Nigger Nat.* He’s one o’ 
them misfortunit critters that can’t never drownd his 

-il 

thirst, if ye know what I mean. He warn’t round to 
visit with ye last night, was he ? ” He turned toward 
the shot-scored door. 

‘‘ Not to my knowledge. Sit down a minute, and 
I’ll tell you about my visitors. Yes, I had some.” 

Duty and curiosity struggled a few seconds in Uncle 
Eb. Curiosity, of course, won. He accepted the chair 
and some new tobacco, loaded a disreputable old pipe, 
puffed as Douglas held a blazing match for him, and 



DALTOW^ DEATH 


105 


looked expectant. Douglas, his own pipe aglow, 
forthwith enlightened him as to the happenings of the 
night. He made merry over his various scares; but 
the older man, his eyes soberly traveling from door to 
door, did not echo his mirth. 

“By mighty, boy, I take off my hat to ye,'’ he 
barked. “ I ain’t scairt o’ nothin’ that walks or crawls 
or swims or flies, an’ I ain’t soop’stitious nuther, but 
I don’t want to live into no house where things walks 
without no feet an’ jiggles a bed without no hands. 
No sirree! I guess mebbe ’twas the wind that bio wed 
yer door open—must of been. But them other 
things-” 

He shook his head and spat noisily on the floor. 

“ I want to tell ye sumpthin’,” he went on. “ I 
thought I wouldn’t tell ye yesterday, so’s ye wouldn’t 
git scairt beforehand; but after I went ’long I wished 
I had, so’s ye’d be ready. I been worried ever sence. 
Thinks I, if anything comes to ye into the night an’ 
catches ye asleep it’ll be my fault for not tellin’ ye. 

“ Wal, now, this house was Jake Dalton’s. He 
warn’t a sociable critter, lived all by hisself, kind o* 
growled if ye spoke to him; an’ he used to go ’way for 
days to a time—had sumpthin’ to do up back, mebbe— 
I never ast no questions. But I drive up an’ down 
’tween here an’ High Falls pretty reg’lar—I git my 
mail thar an’ so on—an’ I know how everything looks 
’long the way. An’ Jake’s door was always shut, 
whether he was to home or not—’less’n he jest hap¬ 
pened to be cornin’ out when I went by. 

“ But one day I see this door a-standin’ a little ways 



106 


CAT-O’-MOUNTAIN 


i 

open an’ Jake nowheres round. I didn’t say nothin’^ 
I went ’long an’ come back, an’ ’twas jest the same. 
I kind o’ figgered about it, but then I thought mebbe 
Jake was drinkin’ up a new jug inside here an’ didn’t 
know ’nough to shut his door—he used to git that way. 
So I went ’long. But about three-four days later on 
somebody said Jake’s door was open yit, an’—wal, 
some of us come down here to see what was what. 

“ Jake was out back. He was the deadest man I 
ever see. He’d been thar—I dunno how long, but too 
long anyway. I ain’t a-goin’ to tell ye how he looked— 
I don’t want to remember it too plain. But we couldn’t 
see a mark onto him, an’ we dunno yit what kilt him. 
But he got kilt sometime into the night. 

We know that much, ’cause Jake was undressed— 
nothin’ onto him but his shirt—an’ we found the rest 
o’ his clo’es hangin’ on nails beside the bed, an’ his 
shoes layin’ onto the floor jest where he dropped ’em. 
He had got up an’ tore open this front door an’ run 
out back an’ fell down an’ died. He was dyin’ when 
he run out o’ here, too—he only went a little ways. 
But what he was runnin’ away from—what had got 
holt o’ him before he run—^nobody knows. Nobody 
but Jake, an’ he can’t tell. 

“ That’s all there is to it, ’cept this: two-three fellers 
tried livin’ here an’ they couldn’t. They heard them 
same things that was round ye last night, an’ other 
things too, 'cordin’ to what I’ve heard tell; an* they 
felt sumpthin’ that was worse’n what they heard. 
They jest couldn’t stand it. So they took everything 
wuth carryin’ an’ got out, an’ sence then nobody’s been 


DALT0W8 DEATH 


107 


here but Dalton’s Death—that’s what folks calls the 
thing that walks here nights: Dalton’s Death. I dunno 

if- Whoa thar. Bob, whoa! Back up! ** 

He clattered to the door and plunged out. Douglas 
followed, to find him grabbing the reins and halting the 
white horse. 

“ Got to go ’long, boy,” he shouted from the edge of 
the road. “ Bob’s a-gittin’ cranky, an’ mebbe he’s got 
a right to. ’Tain’t fitten weather for hoss or man. 
Come on up an’ visit with me any time.” 

He clambered in and turned to yell an afterthought. 
** Don’t leave yer gun here when ye go out. Ye 
might lose it. Some folks ain’t scairt o’ Dalton’s Death 
'ceptin’ at night. G’by. G’yapalong! ” 

Blurred by the rain, he rolled away and was gone. 



CHAPTER X 


A SCRAP OF PAPER 

Singing a sleepy little song, the waters of Coxing 
Kill flowed lazily down their stony channel into a deep 
green pool. 

A week ago, swollen by the deluge of the equinox, 
the Kill had ramped and roared through this glen, 
overwhelming both the shallows and the depths in 
brawling, swirling flood. But now the tumult and vio¬ 
lence were past, the raw chill had fled from the air, 
and under the soft sun of new October the pool had 
again become its serene self: rimmed by vertical gray- 
white rock, shadowed by shaggy hemlocks, reflecting 
on its placid bosom the snowy clouds floating across the 
high blue above—an exquisite little gem of sylvan 
beauty which would have held an artist enthralled. Yet 
it knew few visitors except the birds and the squirrels, 
whose practical eyes saw nothing of its charm; for it 
was well away from the Clove road, and few of the 
denizens of the Traps ever wasted their time seeking 
scenery. 

To-day, however, the little nook was not empty of 
human life. At the upper end of the small chasm a 
figure sat against the base of one of the hemlocks, 
its bare feet tucked under the hem of a faded dress, 
its tumbled hair glowing red in the sunlight filtering 

io8 


A SCRAP OF PAPER 


109 


down through the eastern tree-tangle. The little birds 
and the wood-mice, moving about in their unceasing 
search for food, paused at times to cock their round 
eyes at that unwonted gleam of red against the bark. 
But soon they resumed their activities, unafraid; for, 
though they could not understand what the girl sitting 
so quietly there was doing, they felt that she was a 
friend. 

On her updrawn knees rested a slanting piece of thin 
board, and on the board a scrap of paper. Her pensive 
gray eyes studied the short vista down-stream, and 
from time to time she moved a stubby pencil lightly 
along the sheet, transferring to it new lines. Then, 
with a frown, she would wet a finger-tip at her mouth 
and rub out a line or two. 

It seemed to be an absorbing task, this marking and 
erasing and studying, upon which she was concentrat¬ 
ing her whole soul. Yet it was not so engrossing as to 
rob her of the senses which she possessed in common 
with the tiny wild things around her. All at once she 
and a king-bird which had silently settled near by and 
a mouse under a bush and a chipmunk on a bowlder- 
top did exactly the same thing—froze in the intuitive 
immobility of the wilderness, looking northward. A 
few yards beyond, a stick had cracked dully under 
foot. 

Among the tree-trunks a moving form presently be¬ 
came visible, advancing with no particular stealth but 
with the quiet step of a man acquainted with woods 
travel. The king-bird launched himself on soundless 
wings and was gone. The mouse faded into a hole. 


110 


CAT'O’MOVIITAIII 


The chipmunk whisked about on his tail and poised for 
a lightning jump. The girl made no movement what¬ 
ever. 

The man swung nonchalantly along the brink of the 
rock rim, plumbing with casual gaze the clear water 
below. Then he halted, his lifting gaze caught and 
held by the red glint under the hemlock. A smile 
lit up his lightly bronzed face. 

“ Howdy, Miss Marion/’ he bowed. “ Are you 
* waylaying ’ me ? ” 

‘‘If I was, you’d be all shot ’fore now,” she re¬ 
torted. “ I could ’most stick a gun right into your 
mouth from here. Are you near-sighted or some¬ 
thin’ ? ” 

“ Blind as a bat, I reckon. I can’t see a thing beyond 
you, so I’m going to stop and visit until my sight 
clears up.” 

She flushed and sat up straighten 

“Are you makin’ fun of my hair?” she demanded. 

“ Why, no. Certainly not. What made you think 
that?” 

“ Oh, everybody does. They say Nigger Nat don’t 
need a lamp with my red head there into the house, and 
anybody that meets me onto the road says he thought 
’twas a forest-fire cornin’, and—oh, I’m sick of it! I 
thought mebbe you wanted to be funny the same way 
when you said you couldn’t see past me.” 

“ No, no. It was a poor joke, but I didn’t mean it 
that way.” He dropped beside her, laying his gun 
beside his right leg. “Don’t let folks bother you. 
Chances are that they’d give anything to have hair like 


A ^GEAP OF PAPER 


111 


yours—the women, anyway—but because they can’t 
have it they make fun of it. It’s the way of the world. 
What’s this ? ” 

His hand lifted the forgotten paper and board from 
her lap. She snatched at it. 

Gimme that! ” 

“ Not yet.” He jerked it aside and held it out of 
reach. **Why, it’s a sketch! Let’s see—here’s the 
creek, and-” 

She threw herself at him, her cheeks burning, her 
hands struggling to seize the paper. 

“ You gimme that! ” she blazed. “ ’Tain’t no good— 
don’t you look at it! ” 

But he laughed and stretched his long right arm to 
its longest, holding the paper a yard from her. 

“ Now don’t get excited. I won’t hurt it. I like to 
look at pictures-” 

She tore at his left arm^^ which blocked her like a 
steel bar. 

“ You—^you—gimme that—paper! ” she panted. “If 
you don’t I’ll—I’ll scratch! ” 

He shot a shrewd glance at her furious face and at 
the slender, long-nailed fingers now poising in curving 
menace. The restraining arm gave way suddenly—so 
suddenly that she pitched forward. In one flash¬ 
ing instant that arm had looped around her and 
pinned her against him, her own arms blocked by his 
body. 

“ You little wildcat, I believe you would,” he 
nodded. “ But I really haven’t finished looking at the 
picture. So behave yourself. Now let’s see—there’s a 




112 


CAT-0’‘M0UNTAIN 


hemlock—good, too! And the rock edge along—no, 
that’s not so good. But still, I can easily see what it’s 
meant for, and- Behave, I say! ” 

Writhing, wrenching, heaving, she was fighting like 
a mad thing to break his hold and free her hands. His 
arm only crushed her tighter. Tears of helpless anger 
welled into her eyes. All at once her head dropped on 
his shoulder. 

“ There, don’t cry.” He loosened his hold. ** I’ll 
give it right- Ouch! ” 

Instead of weeping on his shoulder she was biting it. 
He dropped the board and lurched upward, drawing 
her with him. She lifted her head and laughed out 
wildly. 

” Guess you’ll let me go now, won’t you ? ” she 
taunted. 

His jaw set. His right arm, too, swept around her, 
holding her loosely, yet close. 

“ Think so ? ” he challenged. Go on and bite 1 
Bite hard I ” 

The blazing gray eyes burned up into the steely blue 
ones. Breast to breast, body to body, they stood, their 
eyes welded together. She made to move her head, 
but the motion died. Still their eyes clung. And then 
something happened. 

How, why, what it was neither knew—perhaps a 
subtle opening of some hitherto unknown chamber of 
the heart. But the fire died from the gray eyes, the 
chill melted from the blue ones; and something else 
crept into their unswerving gaze. For unmeasured 
minutes the man and the girl stood in silence. 




A BCRAP OF PAPER 113 

Then his arms slowly loosened. Swaying a little, 
she stepped away. 

“ I—^you—^nobody never hugged me like that be¬ 
fore,’' she whispered, as if unconscious of her words. 
“ I’m—Tm dizzy, seems like.” 

“ I’m sorry,” he muttered. 

“ I ain’t,” she breathed. Wide-eyed, she stared up 
as if seeing a man for the first time in her life: as if 
some fairy wand had swept from before her a veil 
through which she had regarded men as creatures little 
more interesting than any other common animals. 
“ Why—why are you sorry ? ” 

He made no answer. His gaze dropped and rested 
absently on the pencil-lined paper which had brought 
it all about. 

Why did you—let me go ? ” she asked. 

“ I was thinking of—Steve,” was his slow reply. 

Her face clouded. Her head drooped, and her 
fingers intertwined. 

“ Steve,” she repeated. “ I see. I—I was forgit- 
tin’ about Steve.” 

She sank down and sat with her chin in her hands, 
soberly contemplating the passing water. He bent, 
picked up the paper, and forced his mind to concen¬ 
trate on it. After a studious interval he nodded and 
looked thoughtfully at the tapering fingers which so 
recently had threatened his face. 

Er—ahem! Do you know. Miss Marion, that you 
have the rudiments of art? I’m no artist myself, but 
I know a little about it. How did you ever come 


114 CAT’O^-MOUNTAIN 

to draw like this? And why didn’t you want me to 
see it ? ” 

She looked up, but in a detached way. Then her 
eyes returned to the creek. 

“ ’Most everybody makes fun of my pictures,” she 
said, as if only part of her mind were talking. “ I 
dunno what you mean by rood—roody—what you said 
about art. But I like to draw ; it comes natural. I 
git spells when I jest have to draw things. That’s 
what got me throwed out of school. I’d draw pictures 
and teacher would catch me and tear ’em up—and one 
day I ’most tore him up too: I flew and scratched his 
face, and I got put out, and that was the end of my 
schoolin’. I don’t care. I don’t want to go to school 
and work onto Aggers and have ’em make fun of me 
’cause my hair’s red and my pop’s a nigger and all. 
I’d ruther go off by my own self and make pictures 
into the woods and rocks. 

There was an artist feller in here two-three years 
back—they come round sometimes—and I watched 
how he worked and tried to do like it, and when he 
see what I was up to he laughed and laughed and—I 
can’t stand to be laughed at! I thought you’d laugh 
too, soon as you see what I made onto that paper.” 

He said nothing for a time. He pondered on her 
work, studied her again, and sighed. 

“ Too bad,” he thought. “ She has real ability, if it 
could be developed. And to think that she’s the off¬ 
spring of such animals as ‘ them Oakses ’ ! ” 

Marion spoke again. 

“ Down in the city do men say ‘ Miss Marryin,’ like 


A JSCEAF OF PAPER 115 

you do? I thought 'twas jest ‘Miss Oaks/ or 
‘ Marry/ ” 

“ It all depends. If you don’t know her well, or if 
you don’t want to, you say ‘ Miss Oaks.’ If you’re 
pretty well acquainted, so that you feel sort of friendly, 
it’s ‘ Miss Marion.’ You have to be real good friends 
to drop the ‘ Miss ’ part of it. Unless, of course, she’s 
only a little girl.” 

“ I see. I dunno if I like ‘ Miss Marryin/ but 
mebbe I do, too. It’s—it’s kind of respectful, ain’t it ? 
Nobody never spoke respectful to me in my life. It 
makes me feel kind of growed-up. But I notice you 
keep on sayin’ ‘ Miss Marryin ’ even after you—after 
you hugged me jest now. And that’s only sort of 
friendly, you say.” 

He opened his mouth to answer, but closed it again. 
He did not know just what to say. He felt, too, that 
no answer was needed—that she was musing aloud 
rather than talking to him. A long pause followed. 
Then she spoke, not of herself, but of him. 

“ I hear you’re livin’ right ’long into Jake’s house. 
Ain’t the ha’nt there now ? ” 

“ Oh, yes. He’s there. But I’m used to him now. 
He never does anything but tramp around and shake 
the bed once in awhile, and I sleep pretty well. How’s 
Steve ? And your pop ? ” 

“ Steve—he’s all right. He’s into a good place, and 
I see him every day. Pop’s same as usual—drunk 
most of the time. But you want to watch out if he 
gits sober. He’s p’ison mad at you, ’count of the 
dogs. I’m awful glad you kilt them critters. They 


116 


CAT-O’-MOUl^TAIl^ 


were always ugly and I was scairt of 'em. One of 'em 
bit you, didn’t he ? ” 

“Not to amoimt to anything—nipped my side a 
little, but the worst damage was to my shirt.” 

She nodded, and went on. 

“ Pop keeps a-stewin’ ’bout it. And Snake Sanders 
is out now, too. Snake, he was all lamed up awhile, 
’specially his neck—couldn’t hardly move it for more’n 
a week. He says he fell down into the rocks.” 

She paused. He said nothing. Then she added: 
“ But some folks say he got licked by a detective.” 

With that she faced about, her eyes twinkling now. 
At sight of his wide grin she laughed out. 

“ Folks sometimes tell the truth,” he admitted. “ But 
what about Snake and your pop ? ” 

“ Well-” She hesitated. “ Snake’s got some 

kind of a hold onto pop, and they’ve been together a 
lot lately, and pop seems to be soberin’ up some. That 
sometimes means trouble for somebody. I dunno 
what’s up—I keep out of the way when Snake comes 
to the house, ’cause I don’t want him pesterin’ round 
me. But you better be careful.” 

“ H’m! Pestering around you ? How ? ” 

“ Oh, he wants me to go and live with him. And 
he’s got a woman already—^Lou Brackett. She’s been 
his woman ’most a year. But I ain’t a-goin’. Pop, 
he’d try to make me go, but mom won’t let him. She 
hates Snake ’most as bad as I do.” 

Douglas gave a soundless whistle. Her matter-of- 
fact statement jolted him. Then his face hardened. 

“ Is he at your house now ? ” he demanded. ** I 



A ^CRAP OF PAPER 117. 

didn’t come along the road—rambled along the creek— 
so I didn’t go past there.” 

“ What you want to know for ? ” She swiftly arose. 
“ You keep away from Nigger Nat’s! ” 

For answer, he picked up his gun and turned toward 
the road. She sprang at him, grasping his arm. 

“ What you goin’ to do ? Tell me! ” 

Teach that snake to keep away from your place.” 

“ No! Listen to me. That’s jest what they’d like. 
.You go trompin’ into there with a gun and makin’ a 
row, and you’d git it—into the back! You keep out. 
Let ’em come to you if they want, but you keep out 
of Nigger Nat’s. You’ll only make it worse for me 
if you go there—me and Steve too.” 

The last words stopped him. Frowning, he rubbed 
his chin and considered. 

Nobody knows I know you—I ain’t told,” she went 
on. Mebbe I might want a friend all to once, 
and so might Steve. A friend that nobody knowed 
about might be worth a lot. And till then. I’d git 
’long a lot easier if pop and Snake didn’t s’picion 
things.” 

Slowly he nodded. Again their eyes met and held, 
and the frank pleading in the gray ones softened the 
chilled-steel glimmer of the blue. 

“ All right, Marion. I’ll mind—this time. But only 
if you promise to come to me any time you need 
help.” 

The tapering fingers gave his arm a quick pressure. 
Then she stood back. 

** I promise you. Now you better go ’long—I’ve got 


118 


CAT-O^-MOUl^TAIl^ 


to go home pretty quick, and I’ll have to go by my own 
self. Go on up the crick, as if I wasn’t here.” 

He nodded and turned away. But he turned back. 

“ Keep right on doing that,” he urged, pointing at 
the sketch on the ground. “ It’s worth while. You’re 
doing fine.” 

With that he trudged away. The bushes quietly 
closed behind him. The little mouse came out, the 
chipmunk whisked in a yellow streak from somewhere 
back to his bowlder, the creek sang placidly on. StiU 
the girl stood looking at the spot where the man had 
disappeared. 

“ He minded me! ” she murmured, a soft glow com¬ 
ing and going in her cheeks. “ He minded me—and I 
bet he’d sooner fight than eat. And he said ‘ Marryin,’ 
too, not * Miss.' But—^but Steve ” 

All at once she leaned against the hemlock tree. 
And the mouse and the chipmunk stood still and stared 
about, seeking a sound which blended into the gurgle 
of the creek but was not of it; a new, sad sound which 
they never had heard before. It was the sobbing of 
a girl. 



CHAPTER XI 


AT THE BRIDGE 

At the edge of the water, beside a little bridge 
spanning the Kill, Douglas sat on a stone and leisurely 
chewed at a sandwich. It was an hour since he had 
bidden Marion good-bye and resumed his wandering 
way up the stream; and now, though noon was not 
quite at hand, he felt that this was the time and the 
place to eat The flat-topped stone was a comfortable 
seat, the sun poured its welcome warmth around him, 
the pure water flowing past furnished both drink and 
finger-bath, and somewhere among the leaves a phoebe- 
bird sang to him its sweetly simple little plaint. 

So, healthily hungry and pleasantly tired by his 
morning ramble to this point, he basked and ruminated 
as if it made no difference whether he continued his 
upward course along the brook or stayed where he 
was until dark. For that matter, it made none. He 
was his own man and master, free to come or go or 
start or stop as fancy decided; and if he should change 
his careless purpose of the morning—to follow the 
stream upward to its birthplace in high Lake Min- 
newaska—no consequences would follow. What he 
did not do to-day he could do to-morrow, or leave for¬ 
ever undone. It mattered not, so long as one more 
care-free day was added to his life. 

119 


120 


CAT-0’-310UNTAIN 


He knew, of course, that soon these golden days 
must end. Just as the gray chill of November and the 
ensuing cold of winter would presently terminate this 
dreamy season of the harvest-time, so the necessity of 
doing his share of the work of the world must eventu¬ 
ally drive him forth from the Traps and back to the 
hurly-burly of the towns. But the bleak time of the 
snows still was weeks away; and so, he hoped, was 
.the day when he must desert this wild comer of the 
hills. Meanwhile, like the squirrels which roved about 
in search of supplies to tide them through the bitter 
time approaching, he rambled and gathered into the 
storehouse of Memory many a mind-picture to feed 
his nature-loving soul when he should again be walled 
within the clanking city. 

Every day since the ending of the “ line storm ” he 
had traveled the Traps. Time and again he had spent 
an entire day threading his way over, under, and 
around the myriad bowlders lying at the foot of Dickie 
Barre’s precipice: some towering on end to the height 
of their parent rock itself, bearing mute witness to the 
terrific power of the ice of the glacial age, hiding 
among them masked chasms seldom seen by human 
eyes; some leaning together as if placed by the hands 
of some Indian giant whimsically building a rock 
wigwam; and countless blocks of every size and shape, 
overlying one another at every angle, as if battered 
from the face of the butte by the hammer of a mad 
Thor. 

In the long cliff itself he had found gloomy caverns 
and crevices which he did not enter, but which, he 


AT THE BRIDGE 


121 


suspected, were by no means unknown to certain men 
of the Traps. The days were too short and his prog¬ 
ress through the chaos too slow and arduous to devote 
time to an extended exploration of those holes. So he 
had viewed their exteriors with a shrewd smile and 
passed on. And, though no sound from within those 
gloomy portals ever floated to him, perhaps it was as 
well that he did pass on. 

But he had not spent all his time in that labyrinth, 
nor had he passed southward in it beyond the point 
where his “ catamount girl'' had first cried to him in 
the night for help. Then she had been coming toward 
him from the south, and he felt that in that direction 
was her little secret dream-cave, and that not far from 
it the fugitive Steve now was hiding. Her secret 
should remain her own; he did not wish even to 
blunder into it by chance. Instead, he turned his 
errant steps in other directions. 

Down the Clove road he had gone, visiting the Clove 
itself—a flat-bottomed valley through which the Kill 
meandered, and where old stone houses hinted at the 
Indian days when every settler's home must be his 
fortress. Along the way, and in the Clove, he had met 
men who stared with unmasked interest, answered 
slowly and briefly when addressed, showed neither 
friendliness nor hostility, but seemed relieved when he 
moved on. Only one had asked him a question, and 
that query was direct and personal. 

Ye're Hammerless Hampton, ain't ye? " 

My name’s Hampton,” he had answered. ‘‘ Why 
the Hammerless ? ” 


122 


CAT-0’‘M0UNTAIN 


A slow nod toward his hammerless gun had revealed 
the reason for his new name. When he in turn b^gan 
asking questions the man had moved away. 

Now, ending his meal and dipping up a measure of 
water in his tin cup, Hammerless Hampton smiled at 
the memory, 

“ I’m getting to be a sort of desperado,” he mused. 

That nickname sounds like Bowie Bill, or Derringer 
Dick, or Six-gun Sam—h’m! or like Snake Sanders. 
Hope the citizenry hereabouts doesn’t classify me 
along with that reptile. I let him think, before I 
punched him, that I was dodging the law, and maybe 
he’s spread the idea around. I’d give a big shiny 
quarter to know just what I’m supposed to be. I 
know I’m a goat, but am I a black one or a white one 
or a spotted one ? ” 

Downing the drink, he refilled his cup and set it 
beside him on the stone while he loaded his pipe. Then 
he looked at his watch. 

''Guess.I’ll move in a few minutes,” he decided. 
" I believe the schoolhouse is up yonder at the corner, 
and the youngsters will be out soon and chasing down 
here, maybe. But I’ve time for a smoke first.” 

He glanced along up-stream, under the bridge, as he 
lit his pipe. Up that way led an unkempt road de¬ 
bouching from the sandy track leading across the 
bridge, and he decided to follow it part of the way. 
Then his eyes lifted, and as they rested on the railing 
above him they widened. 

Leaning on that rail, watching him, stood a woman. 

He had not heard her approach, but she was there, 


AT THE BRIDGE 


123 


and seemed to have been there several minutes. She 
was slatternly, frowsy-haired, olive-skinned, with In¬ 
dian cheek-bones and black eyes; garbed in a shapeless, 
faded dress, and barefoot. Yet she was quite young 
and not without a sensuous comeliness. Now, meeting 
his surprised gaze, she slowly smiled as if she had 
found her survey of him rather pleasing. 

“ Howdyhe said coolly. “ Where did you spring 
from? 

Her smile widened, revealing the fact that two of 
her front teeth had been knocked out. 

** Kind o* caught ye nappin^, hey ?'' she drawled. 

Was ye waitin’ for somebody ? ” 

He puffed a couple of times before replying, mean¬ 
while observing that her gaze went a little beyond him 
to the gim-barrels glistening in the sun. 

“ Nope. If I were, I wouldn’t be sitting here in 
plain sight.” 

She nodded with a bovine air of wisdom. 

** Tha’s right,” she agreed. But what ye lookin’ 
for ? Ther’ ain’t nawthin’ along o’ here.” 

** Well, now, let’s see. If I’m looking for anything, 
it’s for the place where this brook starts.” 

She regarded him with increasing amusement. 
Then she laughed outright, her sleek shoulders quiver¬ 
ing as she rocked on her dusty toes. 

“ I guess so. Yas, I guess so! A lot o’ good that’d 
do ye, wouldn’t it now? Ha ha! Be ye findin’ any 
cold tea up into the rawcks, mister ? ” 

** Up in the rocks ? What makes you think I’ve been 
UD there ? ” 


124 


CAT-O’-MOUNTAIN 


She looked up the road; down the road; at the 
bushy track leading away behind her, up-stream. Re¬ 
assured, she laughed down at him. 

“ Oh, I hearn 'bout ye,” she declared. Some o’ 
them rawcks has got eyes into ’em, mister. Ye’ve been 
up ther’ a-noseyin’ all around. Was ye lookin’ ther’ 
for the place wher’ this crick starts ? ” 

Again she shook with laughter. Coupled with the 
oddity of the missing teeth, her mirth was contagious. 
Douglas grinned in answer. 

“ Nope. Hunting a gold-mine. What did you 
think?” 

To his surprise, she took the jest seriously. Her 
black brows lifted and her wide smile faded. Pres¬ 
ently she nodded in that wise way of hers. 

“ Ninety-Nine’s Mine! ” she said. But ’tain’t a 
gold-mine, mister—it’s silver. An’ it’s fu’ther down 
than the place wher’ ye been lookin’—leastways that’s 
what folks say. But ye’ll be a long time a-huntin’, I 
shouldn’t wonder. Why didn’t ye say so before, ’stead 
o’ gittin’ folks all riled up ’cause they didn’t know 
what ye was pesterin’ round after ? ” 

He stared, wondering whether she was making game 
of him, and decided that she was not. A lost mine! 
His blood quickened at the thought. But he kept con¬ 
trol of his face and smiled again casually. 

“ You’re the first one to ask me what I was doing,” 
he told her. The rest of them decided I was a de¬ 
tective without asking me, so I let them think what 
they liked.” 

“ Ye’re simple! ” she scoffed. If folks knowed ye 


AT THE BRIDGE 


125 


was a-huntin’ the mine they’d jest latf an’ let ye go it, 
but seein’ ye a-slidin’ round so quiet an’ not knowin’— 
wal, ye can’t blame folks for s’picionin’ things. An* 
all to once ye might fall into trouble so hard ye’d never 
git outen it.” 

“ Maybe you’re right. But aren’t you wrong about 
the silver ? I thought it was gold.” 

She swallowed the bait whole. 

“ Nah! Silver, I tell ye. I’d oughter know—I lived 
into this place all my life, an’ I heam the story many’s 
the time. 

“ or Ninety-Nine—everybody’s forgot what his real 
name was, ’twas so long ago—he worked the mine all 
by hisself an’ wouldn’t let nobody else know wher’ 
’twas. Bimeby he turned up missin’, an’ he never 
come back. But a long time afterward one o’ the 
Injuns rormd here come to ’Lias Fox an’ ast him to 
help him onto somethin’ he couldn’t do alone. ’Lias 
he was pretty old, but he was strong an’ willin’, an’ 
him an’ this Injun went up into the woods down 
yender, toward the ledges. An’ when they got up 
into the rawcks the Injun blindfolded him ’fore he’d 
go any fu’ther ’long.” 

She paused suddenly and again looked up and down 
the road. 

“ An’ then he took ’Lias a-stubblin’ round into them 
rawcks,” she resumed, “ an’ pretty quick ’Lias lost 
track o’ wher’ he was. But bimeby the Injun took the 
hankercher offen his eyes, an’ he was a-standin’ beside 
a big flat rawck like a trap-door, with another rawck 
a-stickin’ up beside of it like a marker. Then the 


126 


CAT-O^-MOUNTAIl^ 


Injun got a good stout pry, an* they got one end under 
the flat rawck an* bore down, an* the two of *em 
hefted up that rawck an* wedged it. An’ under it 
was a hole with some rawck steps a-runnin’ down an* 
into the ledge. 

The Injun he went down into the hole, but he 
made ’Lias stay out an’ see the pry didn’t slip. Pretty 
quick he come up an’ tied ’Lias’s eyes ag’in, an’ ’Lias 
had to let him ’cause he was old an* the Injun looked 
pretty bad. Then the Injun walked him out a ways 
an’ left him an’ went back, an’ ’Lias hearn the rawck 
go bang down wher* *twas before, an’ then the Injun 
come back, an* they went ’long out, with the Injun 
ahead. 

‘‘ ’Lias, he got so curious he nigh busted, an’ he 
slipped the cloth up an’ peeked. An’ the Injun was 
a-carryin’ two big heavy bars o’ silver. ’Lias, he 
knowed then he’d been to Ninety-Nine’s Mine. But 
he didn’t dast say nawthin’, an’ he pulled down the 
hankercher an* never let on. Bimeby the Injun stopped 
an’ took off the cloth, an’ they was out o’ the rawcks 
an’ the Injun didn’t have no silver—he’d laid it down 
somewheres. He told ’Lias to go home an* keep his 
mouth shet, an* he’d come back sometime an’ show 
’Lias somethin* that’d make him rich. An’ then he 
went back into the rawcks an’ ’Lias went home. 

“ ’Lias, he waited years an* years, but the Injun 
never come back. ’Lias got too old to go huntin’ that 
place, but he told his boy Tom ’bout it ’fore he died, 
an* Tom he hunted till he died, but he never did git to 
it. An* Tom’s boys. Will an* Abner, they hunted too 


AT THE BRIDGE 


127 


—till Will got kilt. A piece o* rawck fell offen the 
ledge an" mashed him all up. Then Abner, he got 
scairt an" never looked no more—he says old Ninety- 
Nine"s cuss is onto the place an" no white man will 
ever git that silver. Sence then "most every man into 
the Traps has looked, but nobody found it."" 

Her drawl was gone and her tongue flying fast in 
the joy of retelling a well-worn tale. Now she sud¬ 
denly moved off the bridge and came slipping down 
the slope toward him. He arose. 

But ther"s somethin" that everybody don"t know,"" 
she added mysteriously. “An" that’s this—the place 
wher" the sun hits the wall fust into the mornin", that’s 
wher" Ninety-Nine’s Mine is! Mebbe ye can find it, 
mister—don’t tell nobody—but if ye find it "member 
I told ye. Will ye gimme some o" the silver if ye find 
it ? I—I wanter git outen this place!"" 

In the black eyes upturned to his were appeal, re¬ 
volt, wistfulness—and, as they continued to look at 
him, something else. Unabashed, unmistakable, they 
gave him the message that she found him very good 
to look on; that he had but to reach for her and take 
her. He stepped back a little. 

“ I’ll do that—if I find it,” he assured her, repress¬ 
ing a smile. “ If ever I stumble into Ninety-Nine’s 
Mine I’ll give you a full share of whatever is in it. 
Now I think I’ll move-” 

He paused. She had started and thrown a scared 
glance behind. From up on the hill sounded shouts 
and the thud of running feet. School was out. 

“ Oh, my Gawd—git in under the bridge quick I ” 


'-\r 



128 CAT-O’-MOUNTAIN 

she gasped. “ I dasn’t be seen with ye—quick—let 
"em git by! ” 

She tugged at his arm, then jumped for cover under 
the bridge. He hesitated, scorning to hide. But she 
beckoned imploringly. 

Ye’ll git me into misery! ” she quavered. Don’t 
let ’em see ye—they’ll stop an’-” 

He yielded to her importunity. Seizing his gun, he 
bounded under the planks. 

The spatting feet and the childish voices rocketed 
down upon them. The boards thumped roaringly, and 
into the little tunnel drizzled sand from the cracks. 
They were passing by- 

Then a boy’s voice shouted: 

“ Lookit 1 There’s a tin cup! ” 

Douglas glowered at the forgotten cup gleaming on 
the stone outside. He started to move toward it, in¬ 
tending to drive or lure the children away without 
letting them peer under the bridge and find the woman. 
But he was too late. 

Down the slope ran two skinny children, boy and 
girl, to grab the prize. Their quick eyes darted under 
the bridge. They stopped, and, for a second, stood 
open-mouthed. Then across their faces shot a cun¬ 
ning look. Upward they jumped again at top speed, 
and into the road their twinkling legs vanished. And 
out pealed their voices in malicious glee, screaming at 
the other youngsters: 

“ Hey! Oo-ee! Lookit I That ’ere ’tective feller 
has got Snake Sanders’s woman under the bridge! ” 




CHAPTER XII 


THE LAW COMES 

Douglas stopped, wheeled, stared at the woman. 
In her face now burned dull anger. 

“ Ther* now, ye went an’ done it,” she droned. 
” Wha’d ye go an’ leave that cup ther’ for ? Ye fool! ” 

Are you-” He hesitated. Is that true— 

what they’re saying?” 

“ Oh, yas, it’s true ’nough. I’m Lou Brackett,” she 
admitted sullenly. “ An’ jest ’cause I stop to say 
‘ howdy ’ ye go an’ git me into this! I’m in for it now. 
Cuss the luck! ” 

“ You mean Snake will-” 

Ah, he wunt kill me—I’m too handy. He’ll only 
half kill me. But ther’ ”—a spark of spirit began to 
gleam under the black brows—“ I can git the jump 
onto him, knowin’ what’s a-comin’. I’ll keep the sad¬ 
iron by me, an’ when he comes I’ll- 

She paused abruptly, a new and shrewd look flitting 
over her face. All at once she smiled wide and rolled 
her eyes at him. 

“ I know what we can do,” she gurgled. “ Don’t ye 
want a good housekeeper, mister? I hearn ye live all 
by yerself, an’ that ain’t no way for no man to live. 
I can cook an’ sew an’ take good care o’ ye, an’—wal, 
ye got me into this; now ye’d oughter look out for 
me.” 


129 





130 


GAT-O’^MOV^TAIN 


So taken aback was he that he stood wordless. She 
moved toward him. He stepped away. A lucky 
thought came to him. 

“ Tm living with Dalton’s Death,” he solemnly stated. 
‘‘ You couldn’t live there. The ha’nt walks every 
night, knocking on the walls and-” 

“ Don’t say no more! ” she quavered. “ I was for- 
gittin’. Ye’re crazy, livin’into that house! I’d ruther 
stay to Snake’s.” 

Inwardly congratulating himself, he sought a line of 
escape for her—and found it. Up-stream the bank 
was thickly bushed for some distance, and, though the 
voices of the children were not far off, they sounded 
at a respectable distance. He pointed. 

“ Go up there,” he directed tersely. Get well away 
and then hide in the brush. I’ll go talk to the kids— 
tell them they’re cross-eyed. Oh, and listen—if Snake 
acts mean ask him what he’s hanging around Nat 
Oaks’ so much for. If you jump on him quick enough 
maybe he’ll forget what he hears about this.” 

A vindictive glint crept into her eyes. 

“ So he’s a-pesterin’ ’round ther’, hey ? I’ll fix him I 

I’ll-” 

Get going! ” 

With that he stepped out and strode up the bank. 
As he expected, the children were grouped several 
yards away, eager to spy but afraid to venture too 
near the lurking detective.” At sight of him they re¬ 
treated, ready to flee at the slightest threatening move¬ 
ment. He made none. He had a better plan. 

“ Well, what are you young folks jabbering about? ” 




TEE LAW COMEE 


131 


he chaffed them. Can't a fellow take a smoke under 
a bridge without your getting all excited about it ? " 

They dug their toes into the dust^ warily watching 
him. He took a lazy stride, and they gave back in¬ 
stantly—though they did not run. Pausing, he osten¬ 
tatiously puffed at the pipe still smouldering between 
his teeth. The ensuing blue haze bore out his claim 
that he had been smoking. 

What's this I heard about Snake Sanders ?" he 
pursued. “ Snake isn't there." 

Behind he heard a slight splash. The woman was 
obeying his command. 

“'Tain't Snake!" yelped the boy who had seen 
them. ** Snake's woman! Lou Brackett I" 

A mocking chorus swelled out, started by those 
farthest back. 

Under the bridge with Loo-ou! Under the bridge 
with Loo-ou!" 

Another boy, growing bolder, added a further taunt. 

“ Wait till Snake hears 'bout it I He'll hop onto 
ye! Yah!" 

“Yah! Under the bridge with Loo-ou!" piped the 
chorus. 

The man's teeth clenched on the pipe-stem, but he 
kept smiling. 

“ Hadn't you better be sure you're right before you 
start tattling tales ? What do you think Snake'll do to 
you when he finds out you lied to him ? And what do 
you think Til do ? " 

The sudden hush and scared glances around showed 
that the shot struck home. None wanted to incur the 




132 


CAT-O’-MOUNTAIN 


wrath of Snake Sanders. But the girl who had spied 
the hidden pair—a gangling creature with eyes too 
close together—snapped back at him. 

“ 'Tain’t no lie I We seen ye—me and Billy! ” 

Saw me, yes. But there’s no woman under that 
bridge. Why do you yell out that there is? First 
thing you know you’ll get yourself into trouble.” 

Another hush. The youngsters began scowling at 
the pair who had screamed the news. 

She is so! ” stubbornly disputed the girl. I seen 
her! ” 

Now be careful! Want to bet on it? ” He drew 
a bright quarter-dollar from a pocket and held it up. 

Want to bet five cents against this quarter that a 
woman’s there? Any woman at all. If you bet and 
lose, though. I’ll make your teacher get the money 
from you or give you a good hiding. Want to bet? ” 

The half-score pairs of eyes fastened wolfishly on 
the gleaming coin. The boy and the girl wavered and 
remained silent. There might be some trick, and the 
thought of a thrashing was unpleasant. As Douglas 
intended, their failure to accept his dare increased the 
doubt in the minds of the others. 

“ You don’t dare to bet,” he laughed sneeringly. I 
thought not. Well, now, just to show you you’re 
cross-eyed and didn’t see any woman at all. I’ll let you 
look for yourselves. Come on, girls and boys. I 
won’t touch you.” 

Still they hung back. He drifted slowly toward the 
bridge, giving Lou Brackett every possible second of 
time while seeming to urge the children on. On the 


THE LAW COME^ 133 

bridge itself he darted a side-glance up-stream. No¬ 
body was in sight. 

“ Come on!'' he snapped. “ I can’t stand here all 
day.” 

A bolder spirit among the boys edged forward. In 
a minute all were coming. Douglas leaned carelessly 
on the rail and grinned. 

“ Look under, everybody! I want you all to see 
that I’m telling it straight. Use your own eyes.” 

They tumbled down the bank, spied all around, and 
came up laughing loudly at the pair of informers. 

“ She’s gone! ” yelled the boy. ** She was here but 
she run somewheres I ” 

“Where?” instantly countered Douglas. “You’ve 
all been watching this bridge every minute. How 
could anybody come out without your seeing him— 
or her? Now, you two had better go and get some 
glasses. Then maybe you can tell the difference be¬ 
tween a rock imder the bridge and a woman. If you 
really saw a woman, why didn’t you bet a nickel 
against my quarter? Because you didn’t see any. 
Isn’t that right, youngsters ? ” 

His confident argument, poor as it was, clinched the 
matter in the simple minds of those who had not seen 
the woman there. They jeered at the spies, who were 
sullenly silent just when they should have fought 
back. 

“All right, go on,” Douglas waved them away. 
“ Only remember, if I hear any more about this I’ll 
know who told it around, and—you may be sorry.” 
This time he gave the sulky pair a hard look. “ Now 


134 CAT-O’^MOUNTAm 

run along. I want to finish my smoke without being 
yelled at.” 

They went, still poking fun at their discredited 
companions. For awhile Douglas leaned there, know¬ 
ing he was watched, and that while he was the focus 
of attention the woman could move farther away un¬ 
observed. Then he knocked out his pipe and sauntered 
away, directing his steps up the open road toward the 
schoolhouse. 

H'm! That was a sweet mess, wasn’t it ? ” he 
reflected. “ Maybe that pair of little scandal-mongers 
will keep their mouths shut, but I doubt it. However, 
the rest of them didn’t see her, and she’s out of it 
with a whole skin—if she has wit enough to get in the 
first word when Snake shows up. Mister Ha’nt, up 
to the present you’ve been a pest, but now you’re a 
friend in need; you got me out of an embarrassing 
corner quite gracefully. Consider yourself thanked.” 

Chuckling, he swung smoothly along between the 
walls of verdure bordering the road, soon reaching a 
sharp turn where the road angled off to the westward. 
There stood the little dun schoolhouse, now tempo¬ 
rarily deserted. Along both sides of the steep roadway 
beyond stood small houses quite close together. At 
the nearest of these was a workshop, and before it 
toiled an active little man surrounded by new barrels. 

Somewhat surprised by the sight of industry at this 
lazy noon-hour, Douglas slowed his steps as he ap¬ 
proached. The man was obviously a cooper; and 
around one stand of staves he was deftly looping a 
withe hoop and locking it tight by notches in the withe. 


TEE LAW COME^ 


135 


As Douglas halted he rapidly tapped the hoop down 
into position, gave the barrel a roll, and stopped^ foxily 
watching the stranger. 

''Howdy, stranger,*' he gurgled, shifting a lumpy 
quid in one cheek. 

" Howdy. You look busy." 

" Alius busy to this time o* year—folks needs barrels 
for the apples—keeps me a-hustlin’, yessir. But 
lawsy, what’s the use o’ livin’ if ye don’t keep a-movin’, 
says I. Might’s well be a stump or a rock, yessir. 
Some folks’d ruther set and spit tobacker to a rat- 
hole, but not me. I’d ruther wear out than rust out— 
I can lay quiet a long time when I’m dead. Ain’t that 
so?’’ 

" Right as a trivet,’’ the blond man heartily ap¬ 
proved, noting the keen features and the sandy gray 
hair. " I’ll bet you’re a Scotch-Irishman. Am I 
right ? ’’ 

" Wal! Ye hit ’er right into the eye, stranger— 
David McCafferty—that’s me. No slow Injun blood 
or Dutch into me, like some folks round here—I’m 
awake, I am, yessir! Ye’re Hammerless Hampton, 
o’ course. Hearn all ’bout ye, oh, yes.’’ 

His shrewd look dwelt a minute on the gun. Then 
he shot a wary glance around. His next remark came 
in a hoarse whisper. 

" Uncle Eb told me ’bout ye. Fine old feller. Uncle 
Eb. Been to see him yit ? ’’ 

" No. Haven’t seen him since the line storm. I’ve 
been rambling around. Why ? ’’ 

" Wal, go an’ see him now, if ye ain’t got nothin’ 


136 


CAT-O’-MOUNTAIN 


else onto yer hands. He’d oughter be to home pretty 
quick—he went out bee-huntin’ to-day early. Soon’s 
ye see him tell him Davy says this: there’s two 
strangers a-snoopin’ round—come in from the Gap 
this mornin’—I seen ’em slide into the brush down 
yender by the schoolhouse, an’ they ain’t come back. 
Jest tell him that. He’ll know what I mean.” 

Douglas turned, looked at the road behind, let his 
eyes rove in the direction the strangers must have 
taken, and found himself looking at the wall of Dickie 
Barre—where Steve probably was hiding. He scowled 
and unconsciously shifted his gun. A subdued chuckle 
brought his glance back to David, who now was agrin. 

Guess ye think like I do, Hammerless,” he added 
with a swift wink. Anyways, if ye see Uncle Eb 
’fore I do, tell him. I been hopin’ he might come 
back along o’ here, but nobody knows where he’ll 
travel to when he gits a-goin’.” 

“ Which is his house ? ” 

’Bout half a mile ’long—on the left, beyend the 
second turn—yeller house facin’ Dickabar—the onliest 
yeller house on the left side o’ the road. G’by.” 

He dived at his work again, with a back jerk of the 
head to urge his messenger on. Douglas swung away 
with long strides. 

At the other houses along his way faces looked out 
from windows as he passed and heads jutted from 
doorways when he had gone by, but he did not see 
them. His gaze ranged ahead, seeking a yellow house 
on the left. His thoughts were a complex of puzzle¬ 
ment over McCafferty’s cryptic last utterances and of 


THE LAW COME^ 


13T 


worriment for Steve. He did not reflect on the fact 
that Steve was an escaped convict: he thought of him 
only as a hunted victim of the machinations of Snake 
Sanders and as the wild young sweetheart of Marion, 
and he resented the coming of men who might be 
human bloodhounds trailing the unlucky youth. And, 
though he wondered why honest Uncle Eb should 
need a warning of the presence of those newcomers, 
he dismissed the enigma with the guess that this was 
only a part of the “ underground telegraph system 
of the Traps, whereby its citizens, good or bad, learned 
news which might or might not concern them vitally. 

Though he did not realize it, he was responding to 
his environment. The mysterious undercurrent of 
things unseen, half-guessed—of whispers and winks 
and silences—of secret movements in the jungly brush 
and the labyrinth of stones—was eddying around his 
straightforward nature and deflecting him into the 
channel where, in time, he might become an integral 
part of the walled-in stream of life revolving about the 
bowl. Whether he should ride on the surface of that 
stream, whether he should float below it like a sub¬ 
merged snag, whether he should suddenly drop to the 
bottom and be forever lost, only time could tell. But 
the current was working, and he was drifting with it 
unawares. 

Less than a month ago, as Douglas Hampton, news¬ 
paperman, he had had a friendly nod and a smile for 
every blue-coated patrolman he happened to meet. In 
his own neighborhood he had known personally every 
** cop,’’ and some of the plain-clothes dicks ” as well; 


138 


CAT-0’’M0UNTAIII 


and many a time in the dead hours of night, when his 
own work was done and policemen had little to do but 
patrol vacant beats, he had stood long in some shadowy 
corner and yarned with a lonesome guardian of the 
law. “ A fine bunch of fellows,^’ had been his opinion 
of them then. Yet now, as Hammerless Hampton, 
his mental reaction to the hint of the arrival of man- 
trackers was instinctively hostile; hostile, though he 
himself still was almost universally regarded as a de¬ 
tective. Yes, he was drifting. 

But he was not to drift long. The time was close 
at hand when, in his own mind at least, he must align 
himself with or against the forces of the law. In 
fact, every stride he took was narrowing the distance 
between him and that decision. When he turned into 
the little dooryard of the only yellow house on the 
left, he was within ear-shot of the growling voice of 
the Law. And when he tramped noisily up the steps 
and looked through the open door at the top he looked 
squarely into the eyes of the Law itself. 

Beyond that door stood three men. One, his hat 
askew on his silvery hair, was Uncle Eb. The other 
two, beefy, red-faced, regarding the newcomer with 
cold eyes, were obviously outsiders. The civilian 
clothing and blunt-toed shoes, the chilled-steel stare, 
the untanned hands hovering on a level with the lowest 
buttons of their vests, the significant bump bulging the 
coat of the nearer man—over the right rear pocket— 
all told the same tale to Hampton’s quick survey. 

There was no guesswork about it this time. The 
Law was in the Traps. 


CHAPTER XIII 


THE CODE OF THE HILLS 

Standing there in the doorway, Douglas watched 
the eyes of the two strangers shift rapidly over him, 
taking him in from clean-shaven face to laced boots, 
then returning to the shotgun under his arm. With a 
cool nod to them, he turned to Uncle Eb—and sur¬ 
prised in the old man's countenance a look of mingled 
anxiety and hope. 

“ Howdy, Uncle Eb,” he said casually. ‘‘ Thought 
rd drop in a minute and smoke a pipe. Didn’t know 
you had company.” 

Come in! Come right in, son! ” The explosive 
voice was even more abrupt than usual. “ Where ye 
been all the time ? I been by yer house twice—stopped 
to see ye—but ’twas all empty like. I was scairt the 
ha’nt might o’ got ye. These fellers—I dunno ’em— 
they ain’t no comp’ny o’ mine. I jest got home—^been 
bee-huntin’—found a good tree, too—^bet ther’s a good 
fifty pound o’ honey into it—these fellers was jest 
a-comin’ into the yard when I come.” 

The jerky sentences, the strained look, told Douglas 
that Uncle Eb—Uncle Eb, who had previously asserted 
that he had no reason to fear detectives—was nervous. 
Now he thought he caught a meaning flutter of one 
white-lashed lid and a sidewise flicker of the eyes. 
But he could not interpret the signal—was not even 

139 


140 CAT-O^^MOU^TAIl^ 

sure it was so intended. So he only nodded care¬ 
lessly. 

Uh-huh. I’ve been rambling around, or I’d have 
seen you sooner. Did you get that tobacco for me at 
High Falls?” 

The question was a blind for the benefit of the 
listening pair. He had given Uncle Eb no commission 
to bring him more tobacco, and his present stock was 
more than ample. But the old man snatched instantly 
at the hint. 

Yas—yas, I did, boy. It’s into my bedroom—I’ll 
git it. But I dunno if I got what ye want. Ye didn’t 
tell me what kind, so I got two. Come pick what ye 
3 vant, an’ I’ll keep t’other for myself.” 

He lumbered into another room, Douglas lounging 
after. The two strangers made slight movements as 
if to follow, then remained where they were. Uncle 
Eb had left the door wide open, and the watchers saw 
that he was taking tobacco cans from the top of an old- 
fashioned chest of drawers: yellow cans and blue ones. 

They’re both slice-cuts,” rattled the old man. 
“ Some likes one, some wants t’other. Take yer pick.” 

Douglas, holding a can in each hand as if consider¬ 
ing, knew by their lightness that no tobacco remained 
in them. They were old tins, saved by the thrifty 
hillman for any use that might occur to him. He slid 
a comerwise glance at Eb. 

“ Or take both kinds if ye want—I’ve got some 
more.” Then, hardly moving his lips, the old man 
breathed: ** Steve in bam—go tell him hide in hay! ” 

^ Douglas repressed a start. So that was it! Uncle 


THE CODE OF THE HILLS 


141 


Eb, loyal to his people though honest in his own life, 
was sheltering the refugee. And he, Hampton, who 
previously had had only a passive hand in aiding the 
fugitive, now must act either to help or to outwit the 
heavy-handed Law standing beyond the doorway. 

According to the smug dictum of all self-righteous 
society, his duty was plain: to inform the waiting 
police that an escaped convict lurked within a stone’s 
throw. What matter if he thereby involved Uncle Eb 
as an accomplice? What though he tore the heart of 
a girl and threw a boy back into a living tomb? A 
convict was a convict, duly sentenced by judicial au¬ 
thority, and those who connived to defeat that author¬ 
ity must suffer the consequences. And the girl— 
what is a girl’s grief to the Law ? 

Such was the code of Respectability. Confronting 
it was the code of the hills, which this old man was 
instinctively obeying; the code of natural justice, far 
more ancient and human than the chain-clanking ma¬ 
chinery of legislature and court and prison: Stand by 
your own! On either side of Douglas Hampton they 
towered, stark and hard as the two great walls of the 
Traps; and he must either swing on in the Traps 
current or turn and fight against it. 

To a worshipper of codes, the choice might have 
come hard To this man it was hardly even a matter 
for choice. He had his own instinctive code, and 
backbone enough to follow it through. And now he 
gave no thought to the beliefs and traditions of either 
the great world without or the little world within the 
mountain bowl. He saw only the desperate face of 


142 


CAT’0^’M0U:^TAIN 


Steve, heard only the lad's vehement denial of guilt. 
And he spent no time in pondering over his course. 

Not more than five seconds passed between Uncle 
Eb's whisper and his first move. He nodded, slid the 
empty cans into separate pockets, and turned door- 
ward. 

“ Thanks. I'll try 'em both out,” he said. “ Pay 
you the next time I see you. That all right ? ” 

“ Sure, sure, that's all right—any time, son, any 
time. Mebbe I'll be drivin' down your way to-morrer, 
or anyways the next day—I might go after the honey 
to-morrer. Want to set in an' eat 'fore ye go? I 
ain't much good of a cook, an' Marthy an' Becky ain't 
to home to-day—they went a-visitin'—but I got to fix 
up sumpthin' for myself, an'-” 

“ No, I'll be going. Had my lunch just a little while 
ago. 

“Wal, g'by. Which way ye goin'—up back? Wal, 
say, do sumpthin' for me. Throw down a jag o' hay 
to the boss when ye go 'long. Much 'bliged.'' 

Douglas nearly grinned at the old man's adroitness 
in thus openly turning him toward the barn. But he 
kept his face expressionless and, with a nod both to 
Uncle Eb and to the silent man-hunters, loafed toward 
the exit. Then one of the sinister pair moved and 
spoke. 

** Wait a minute,” he commanded bruskly. “ What 
you carryin’ that gun for? This ain't huntin' season.” 

No? ” was the careless retort. “ It's always hunt¬ 
ing season—for foxes and other vermin.” 

The second bristled. 



THE CODE OF THE HILLS 


143 


“ Whatcha mean by voimin ?'' he growled. 

Douglas turned an amused face to him. 

'' Hello, Brooklyn!'' he laughed. “ This is the foist 
time I’ve hoid that Sands-Street accent since I came 
up here. How’s your thoist ? ” 

The first grinned at the mimicry of his mate. The 
second, though he still looked truculent, blinked. 

“ Takes an oily boid to catch a woim up here,’' 
gibed the blond man. But who’s the woim ? I 
haven’t hoid of any squoiming around on this toif.” 

Whereat the first man chuckled and the second 
turned brick-color. 

“ Whatcha mean by that stuff ? ” he rasped. 
“ How’d ya git the idear I was lookin’ for anybody ? 
You know too much, you do. Come on, now, I guess 
me and you’ll have a little talk. And you can lay that 
gun down on the floor, see ? ” 

Douglas laughed derisively. 

I know I can—but I won’t. Just go easy. Mister 
Bull, and don’t monkey with the works. You’re talk¬ 
ing to a big-town boy now, and that stuff doesn’t go. 
And if you think you’re disguised so that I can’t spot 
you, think again. Those flatfoot shoes are a dead 
give-away, not to mention your hip-bump and your 
cop face.” 

Yeah ? Guess you’re in the habit of watchin’ for 
them things, hey? And whatcha doin’ up here, my 
fine boid ? Kind of a funny place for a big-town boy 
to hang out, ain’t it, huh? What was the last name 
you went by ? ” 

He was moving, almost imperceptibly, to get Douglas 


144 


CAT’O’-MOUNTAIN 


between him and his companion. The blond 
foiled the attempt by taking one swift side-step and 
getting his back to the open doorway. 

” Don’t make a fool of yourself,” he advised wearily. 

You can’t scare me that way in a year of Simdays. 
Just to satisfy you—though it’s none of your business 
—I’m Hampton, of the New York Whirl, up here on 
a vacation. If you get too obstreperous, Mister Man, 
I can give you a lovely write-up when I get back to 
town—that kind that may let you out of your job. 
Gk) easy.” 

The other halted where he was. The name of the 
Whirl and the thinly veiled threat coupled with it 
stopped him dead; for it conjured up the vision 
dreaded by every officer, even though he may affect to 
scoff at it—the possibility of being held up to scorn in 
the public prints. He understood now why this fellow 
refused to be bulldozed, why he laughed in his face 
—he was one o’ them newspaper guys,” than whom 
there is no more nervy and disrespectful tribe on 
earth; whose friendship is worth much to any police 
officer, and whose enmity is not to be lightly incurred. 

- Naturally, he did not know that Hampton was no 
longer connected with newspaperdom. 

You on the Whoilf ” he growled, a crafty light in 
his eyes. ‘‘ Who’s city editor there now ? ” 

“ Chapman, of course. Same old grouch he always 
was, too.” 

The other nodded grudgingly. City Editor Chap¬ 
man was known far and wide in both newspaper and 
police circles for his uncanny news ability and his 


THE CODE OF THE HILLS 145 

vitriolic temper. This fellow’s knowledge of Chapman 
and his impudent assurance carried conviction. 

“ All right, Hampton. Guess you’re O. K. Know 
this fella ? ” He nodded toward Uncle Eb. 

‘‘ Sure. He’s as honest as they make ’em. What 
are you fellows in here for ? Got anything good ? ” 

“ Nope—nothin’ you’d want,” was the hasty cover- 
up. “ I ain’t woikin’ in the big town now—this is a 
little up-river stuff. Me and my pal’s jest lookin’ 
round for some small-fry. Don’t let us keep ya. So 
long.” 

Douglas laughed openly. The burly man now was 
even more anxious to be rid of him than he was to go 
to the barn. 

“ Oh, all right. Let’s see, who did you say you 
were ? And from where ? ” 

“ Didn’t say. So long, fella. So long.” 

He turned his back squarely on his questioner. The 
other man, who had been searchingly watching 
Douglas, now directed his gaze elsewhere and also 
turned an aloof shoulder to him. Douglas shot a wink 
at Uncle Eb and strolled out. 

“ G’by, son,” called the old man. “ Don’t forgit the 
boss.” 

Oh, sure. I’ll fix him up. See you later.” 

With lazy step he sauntered up to the little yellow 
bam, whose sliding door stood open a few inches. 
Once inside, he dropped his languid air in a flash. 

Steve! ” he called softly, peering around. 
“ Steve! ” 

No answer came. In a dark stall a horse moved and 


146 


CAT-O^-MOUNTAIN 


stamped. Somewhere down below sounded the grunts 
of hogs which had heard his steps. But of human 
movement, of human voice, there was no sign. 

“ Steve! he whispered loudly. “ Where are you ? 
Get into the hay! Quick! ” 

Again there was no sound. But movement came. 
Under a stair-flight leading aloft in the dimmest cor¬ 
ner, something slipped cautiously into sight—first an 
ear, then a cheek, then a peeping eye. It hung there, 
waist-high, watching the man go squinting into the 
stalls and around him. 

Steve! This is Hamp! Uncle Eb says- 

‘‘ Awright! 

The whispered reply, hoarse and penetrating, cut 
short his speech and turned him stairward. The eye 
became two, and the face rose as if the concealed 
youth were getting up from his knees. 

“ What’s he say ? ” demanded Steve. 

“ Get into the hay! Two bulls are here—in the 
house—may come here any minute—get under cover 
quick.” 

“ Uh-huh.” Steve darted forth. “ I seen ’em. 
Figgered I better hide into this ’ere hole an’ mebbe 
duck out if they went up ’bove. Would of skipped 
outen here, but the side house-winder looks right to 
the barn an’ I s’picioned they’d see me.” 

He was already on his way upward. Douglas fol¬ 
lowed close behind. They emerged into a small hay¬ 
loft, crammed with the season’s crop of horse-fodder. 
At each end, high up in the peak but now level with 
the piled hay, a small window, let in light. In 



TEE CODE OF TEE EILLS 147 

that light the two stood an instant looking at each 
other. 

Though the desperate look of the hunted still was on 
the fugitive's face, he looked far better than when 
Douglas had carried him into the den among the 
bowlders. Then he had been wan, pinched, utterly 
exhausted. Now his cheeks were more round, his eyes 
unrimmed by blue crescents, his swarthy skin tinged 
by healthy color. Food and sleep in plenty had trans¬ 
formed him from a hatchet-faced wreck to a not un¬ 
handsome young man. But the hard set of the mouth 
and the glitter of the dark eyes still were there. 

“ I'll never go back!" he whispered fiercely. “ I 
had three years o' misery—for a job I never done— 
an' them dicks wunt git me back. I'll kill 'em—I’ll 
git shot—I’ll jump offen the ledges an' bust my neck— 
anythin’—but I ain't a-goin' back! An' I got to git 

Snake 'fore anybody gits me. I- Shuh! What’s 

that ? They cornin’ ? ” 

He bounded up on the great mound and peered out. 
Douglas flashed a glance around. His eyes halted on 
the other window—the rear one. It was open. 

“ They’re a-comin’! They’re a-going to look round 
into here I I got to git under I " 

Outside sounded Uncle Eb's loud voice, angrily pro¬ 
testing against search of his premises. The two man- 
trailers were stonily silent. 

“ No! " decided Douglas. ‘‘ If they're suspicious 
they’ll look in the hay. You get outside! Through 
that window—I'll steady you—swing up over the eaves 
and hug the roof. And lie quiet! ” 



148 


CAT-O’-MOUNTAIN 


Steve, with the ruthless Law almost upon him, 
blindly obeyed. Across to the rear window they 
plunged over the hay. The boy wriggled through the 
opening, turned his face inward, reached for the eaves 
above. Douglas braced himself, grasped the bare 
ankles, heaved upward. A clawing sound above—a 
spasmodic kick—a squirming struggle—the legs broke 
free and vanished. Followed a soft bump or two, a 
short scraping sound—and silence. 

‘‘ I tell ye, ye ain't got no right into my place with¬ 
out a search warrant! " stormed Uncle Eb below. ‘‘ I 
ain't got nothin' to hide, but I got the same rights any 
other honest man's got. Show yer warrant! I forbid 
ye into this place! " 

“ Ah, call in yer lawyer and we'll talk to him,” 
sounded the sneering answer. “ Go sit down and hold 
yer head. We won't damage nothin'. Looks bad, too, 
you gittin' so woiked up when you got nothin' to hide. 
Hey, Ward ? ” 

Douglas reached down and rapidly loosened the 
lacing of one boot. Then he went back across the 
hay and sat down. At once a heavy foot sounded on 
the stairs. 

“ Hey, up there! You, Hampton ? ” 

“ Right both times—there's hay up here, and I'm 
Hampton,” drawled the man above. 

“ Huh! Bill, go up and take a look. I'll see that 
nothin' slides out down here.” 

The red face of Bill, ex-Brooklynite, rose above the 
floor, glowering around. 

‘‘Well, whatcha doin', Hampton?” he growled. 


THE CODE OF THE HILLS 149 

“ Thought ya was fcedin’ the horse^ but I notice he 
ain’t fed yet. Slow, ain’t ya? ” 

“ Gh, I take my time. And right now I’m straight¬ 
ening up my sock. Ever have a sock wrinkle under 
your heel? Makes a beautiful blister. Horses can 
wait until my foot is fixed to suit me.” 

Red-Face grunted and keenly surveyed the mow. 
Douglas coolly laced up the boot, as if completing 
what he had been doing when interrupted; stretched 
his leg, worked his foot up and down, and nodded as 
if satisfied. 

“ That feels better,” he announced. Well, Statue 
of Liberty, what’s all the heavy thinking about? Or 
are you only trying to look wise and pretending to 
think ? ” 

The other’s heavy mouth twisted in an ugly grin. 
He reached for a pitchfork standing near, yanked it 
free from the hay, inspected its long gleaming tines. 

Funny as a toothache, ain’t ya! One of these days, 
fella, that mouth o’ yourn’ll git ya into a box,” he 
predicted. “ Right now I got other things to poke 
into. Jest come down off that hay—unless you’re 
coverin’ somethin’ up. That’s right. Ya mind like 
ma’s angel-face, don’t ya? Now watch what I toin 
up! ” 

With a leap he came up. And with a shrewd jab 
he drove the fork down into the hay on which Douglas 
had been sitting. 




CHAPTER XIV 


COLD NERVE 

Again and again the man-hunter stabbed at the hay, 
moving about with each new attack, lunging more 
viciously as his searching prods brought no result. 
Douglas felt a little chilly as he visualized what might 
have happened if Uncle Eb’s advice had not been dis¬ 
regarded at the last minute. And the old man down 
below, hearing the loud rustle of the dried grass and 
knowing nothing of the change in Steve’s place of 
refuge, lost his grip on himself. 

With a yell he came thundering up the stairs, his 
walrus mustache bristling like tusks and his jaw jut¬ 
ting as if about to bite. 

Git offen that hay! ” he bellowed. " Git outen 
here! An’ git quick, ’fore I muckle onto ye. I’ll 
sling ye head-fust outen the winder! Git! ” 

The man above had jumped about and swung the 
fork menacingly before him. Infuriated still further 
by the sight of his own hay-tool turned against him, 
the old warrior sprang up the sloping side of the mow, 
panting inarticulate threats. But he collided with 
Douglas, who slid down at him and clinched. 

** Hold your horses. Uncle Eb! ” he exhorted. 
" He’s not hurting the hay or smoking in it—only 

150 


COLD IIEnYE 151 

jabbing the fork into it, for some reason or other. 
Let him fool around. .Whoa! Quiet down! 

But Eb’s blood was up, and he knew no reason why 
he should quiet down. He fought to break free, and 
the younger man found his hands very full. Tussling 
mightily, they reeled about at the foot of the slope, in 
imminent danger of slipping over the edge of the open 
gap in the floor and crashing down the steep stairs. The 
man Ward, who had bounded part-way up to aid his 
companion if necessary, took one look and hastily got 
from under. His mate Bill, still holding the fork 
poised for defense, grinned nastily at the grappling 
pair. 

Douglas got his chin on Eb^s shoulder and ventured 
a whisper from the corner of his mouth. 

If s all right. He’s not there.” 

It took some seconds for his meaning to penetrate 
the old fellow’s raging brain, but Douglas managed to 
hold him until he understood. Then all at once he 
ceased struggling. Too, he quick-wittedly gave a de¬ 
ceptive excuse for his outbreak. 

“ Fellers come into here—actin’ like they was the 
King o’ Rooshia an’ I was a dawg,” he panted. Ain’t 
got no search warrant—think they can sass me right 
into my own house—tromp onto my hay an’ spile it 
for the bosses—they got to git out! ” 

“ That’s right, too,” Douglas nodded. ** I know how 
you feel. But the best way is to let the smart-Alecks 
show themselves that they’re wrong—and then, if they 
don’t apologize, report them to the right authorities. 
I can tell you where to send the report.” 


152 


CAT-O’-MOUNTAIN 


At that Bill glowered anew. He glowered still more 
when Douglas turned to him with sarcastic permission 
to continue. 

“ You, up there, go on amusing yourself if you like. 
Mr. Wilham here will take his amusement later—when 
you're trying to explain to your superiors why you 
took it on yourselves to molest a peaceable citizen. 
Maybe he’ll get more fun out of it in the long run 
than you will. So go ahead playing hay-maker—it’s a 
nice game for little boys. When you get through, 
bring down a forkful for the horse. It’ll save me the 
trouble.” 

Bill’s mouth became a thin line. He looked as if 
about to heave the fork at his tormentor. But after 
one long glare he doggedly returned to his search, 
speaking not a word. Had any fugitive been under 
that hay now, however, he would undoubtedly have 
died under the vindictive lunges of the fork. 

Foot by foot he bayoneted the mow, from end to 
end and from side to side. Douglas watched with a 
tantalizing grin. Uncle Eb in silent perturbation— 
wondering where Steve was but not daring to ask by 
word or look. From above came no sound. Steve was 
lying quiet as the dead. 

In Hampton’s mind grew a big suspicion. These 
men were conducting themselves as if acting on pre¬ 
vious information: as if told by some one that here 
they would find what they sought. It was prepos¬ 
terous to suppose that they would go thus through the 
entire Traps, jabbing every hay-loft, riding rough¬ 
shod over every man’s right to call his home his castle. 


COLD NERVE 


153 


They had come in only that morning, gone up toward 
the bowlders—and then come to the one place where 
the refugee was. It might be blind chance, but—^yes, 
Douglas was suspicious. 

Finally the man Bill, with an oath, threw down the 
fork. His face was redder than ever, streaked with 
sweat, itching from hay-dust. He mopped a hand 
over his prickly cheeks, scratched his head violently, 
bent a baleful glare on the two below. Then he came 
wallowing out of the ragged mass he had stirred up. 

** Say, bring along that horse-feed, will you? WeVe 
been waiting long enough,'^ complained Douglas. As 
if in emphasis, an impatient whinny sounded below. 

Another oath exploded from the badgered Bill. He 
slid clumsily down and stood looking as if aching to 
punch the grinning mouth. But he did not punch. 
Swallowing something, he pointed downward. 

Git down-stairs! ” he rasped. “ You, Hampton, 
you got in here foist, but ya’ll stay where I can see ya 
from now on. G'wan! Move! ” 

The blue eyes narrowed at the dictatorial tone and 
the half-spoken accusation. But then Douglas smiled 
again—an exasperating smile. 

" When I’ve fed the horse,” he singsonged. “ Then, 
if I feel like it. But there, Uncle Eb, maybe you’d 
better do the feeding, now that you’re here. If I laid 
this gun down I might lose it. Some folks can’t be 
trusted.” 

Uncle Eb cackled harshly. Bill moved his right arm 
quickly, but stopped it. Douglas still smiled, but his 
eyes were cold and his gun gripped in a ready-looking 


154 


CAT-O^-MOUl^TAIl^ 


fist Ward, whose head had risen again on the stairs, 
watched like a cat, one hand under his coat. 

Deliberately Uncle Eb gathered a big armful of hay, 
crowded past Bill with it, dropped it on the open chute 
to the horse’s bin and stuffed it down with a small 
two-tined fork standing at hand. Then he returned to 
the stairs and clumped down them. Ward giving way 
but holding his position. 

“ After you, my dear Bill,” bowed Douglas. ** Oh, 
don’t be afraid. The Whirl may jump on your neck 
one of these days, but not this afternoon. G’wan! ” 

At the patrolman-like twang of the last word Ward 
grinned slightly. He evidently had a sense of humor. 
Bill looked at him, at Douglas—then trod to the stairs 
and down. Douglas followed. 

Below, the pair conducted a rapid but extremely 
thorough search of the ground floor. Meal-chests, 
barrels, stalls, the covert under the stairs—every nook 
and corner where a man could possibly be hidden was 
looked into. When they still found no sign of what 
they sought, they paused and looked hard at each 
other. 

“Any cellar tmder here?” demanded Ward. 

“ If ye call a hawg-pen a cellar, yas,” snapped Uncle 
Eb. “ Gro look into it—waller round into it—ask the 
hawgs what they had for breakfas’—wait awhile an* 
mebbe I’ll feed ye some swill along with ’em.” 

“ Say, whatcha mean by that ? ” snarled Bill. 

“ I mean ye was brought up into a hawg-pen an* 
that’s where ye belong 1 ” flared Eb. “ That plain 
’nough for ye? ” 


COLD NERVE 


155 


It was. Bill started for the old man. But Douglas 
stepped between them. He said nothing; he only 
looked. Bill liked the look so ill that he slowed, then 
stopped. 

“ An’ after ye’ve shook hands with yer brothers ye 
can come an’ go all over the house, like ye was goin’ 
to when ye got s’picious an’ follered Hampton down 
here,” jeered Eb. I don’t let pigs into my house as 
a gin’ral thing, but-” 

That’ll be about enough of that! ” Ward broke in. 
“ Keep a civil tongue in your head.” 

“—But this once. I’ll do it, seein’ ye’ve gone so fur 
now,” Uncle Eb continued, ignoring him. I can air 
out the house when ye’re gone. Hurry up now. Look 
under the beds an’ into the oven an’ all—an’ then git 
offen my land an’ stay off! ” 

The two looked keenly at him for a full half-minute. 

** Since you’re so willing, we won’t,” announced 
Ward. Bill nodded sulkily, looking again around the 
barn. Ward rubbed his jowl and spat on the floor. 

“ What d’you make of it. Bill ? ” he puzzled. 

“ Somebody lied! ” was the morose answer. 

“ Yeah. Looks like it. Well, let’s travel.” 

Douglas, shrewdly watching, loosed a snap shot. 

‘‘ Don’t you fellows know any better than to believe 
Sanders ? ” 

The slight start, the involuntary flicker of the eye¬ 
lids, told him that his shot had scored. 

‘‘Uh—whatcha mean? We ain’t seen Sanders,” 
blurted Bill. 

“ No ? I notice that you know his name, though. 



156 


CAT^O^'-MOVl^TAIIl 


How much did he shake you down for? You'd better 
get it back, quick." 

The pair scowled at each other. Bill, with a growl, 
started for the door. Ward halted him. 

“ Hold up, Bill. No hurry," he said. “ What about 
Sanders, Hampton ? " 

Only this much: Folks around here think Fm a 
detective. Sanders thought so too. He offered to get 
me any man I wanted—for half the reward. If the 
man wasn’t here, he offered to sell me some fellow 
who hadn’t done an3^hing but who could be railroaded 
—for the right price. He bragged that he could sell 
anybody, and that he’d done that kind of business be¬ 
fore. Does that line of talk sound familiar?" 

The scowls grew deeper. 

‘‘ Some of it," Ward admitted. “ Not the railroad 
part of it, but—some of it. Well, say, Hampton, I’m 
sure obliged to you for that. Sell anybody, eh? That 
means the fellow he’s dealing with, too. Uh-huh. 
Bill, let’s you and me take a walk.” 

Bill, with another growl, started forward again. 
But Douglas was not yet through. 

Aren’t you forgetting something ?" he asked 
pointedly, moving his head toward Uncle Eb. 

“ That’s right," Ward acknowledged. I’m sorry, 
Mr.—uh—Williams—^Wilson-" 

Wilham! ’’ barked Eb. “ I ain’t got nothin’ ag’in 
you. It’s this here hawg." His frosty eyes glinted at 
the offensive Bill. 

“How about it. Bill?" queried Ward, his tongue 
in his cheek. 



COLD NERVE 157 

Bill turned sourly, heavy jaw set. But he attempted 
amends. 

‘‘ Sorry, old fella,” he mumbled. We got a bad 
steer. We ain’t hoit ya, have we? We gotta do our 
dooty. We—uh-” 

“All right, let it go at that,” Douglas interposed. 
All four moved out of the barn. As they emerged, 
Douglas began speaking a little louder, so that Steve 
could hear. And, to keep the pair from glancing back 
and perhaps seeing what was on the roof, he walked 
toward the house, talking over one shoulder. 

“If you want to find Sanders, you’d better go 
straight down the road and hunt his house. He’ll 
probably be there at meal-time, if not before. Where 
does he live. Uncle Eb ? ” 

“ Way over t’other side, not sech a long ways from 
the Gap,” Eb answered readily. “ He comes an’ goes 
by cross-cuts, but ye better stick to the road. Ye turn 
into the Clove road down past the schoolhouse, keep 
on till ye’ve crossed the crick twice—it sorter wanders 
round an’ ther’s bridges acrost—an’ then ther’s a kind 
of a wood-road bearin’ off to yer right. Go up that 
an’ ye’ll find Snake’s house. Ye’ll be ’bout the onliest 
comp’ny thar. Nobody visits much with Snake.” 

They were turning into the dooryard before the 
house now. Bill and Ward morosely eyeing the road 
and trying to fix in mind the unfamiliar turns as de¬ 
scribed by Uncle‘Eb. Douglas stole a glance beyond 
them. One side of the barn roof was in plain sight 
now. And on that side, a quarter of the way down, 
was Steve. 



158 


CAT^O^^MOUIfTAIN 


Hugging the shingles, he was craftily working eaves- 
ward from the ridge to which he had clung. With 
bare toes and flattened hands holding him from too 
sudden a slip down the pitch, he was sliding himself 
lower and lower on his stomach. When he should 
reach the eaves, it would be only a matter of a short 
drop to the ground and a quick jump around the cor¬ 
ner, and he would be out of sight. But if his pursuers 
should happen to look that way now- 

“ Look here,” Douglas said quickly, stooping and 
tracing a line with his gun-butt, ‘‘ here’s the road. 
Now you go down this way, and then-” 

Moving the weapon, keeping his eyes glued to his 
crude map, he talked on, holding their attention. They 
followed every move. And behind them the ragged 
figure on the bam roof descended until its feet hung 
out over the eaves. There it hesitated an instant, 
balancing itself for the final slip and drop. 

Douglas dared not look. Playing for time, he ap¬ 
pealed to Uncle Eb for information regarding some 
fictitious road which might branch off before the right 
one should be reached. Eb’s eyes were crinkled with 
amusement, for he saw that the younger man was in¬ 
venting most of his road-map; but he kept his face 
straight, disputed a couple of turns, and put down 
a gnarled finger to make a new section of the 
course. 

Bill began to stir impatiently. His eyes wandered. 

“ Yeah, we’ll git there,” he broke in. “ Come on. 
Ward.” 

“ When you get there, look out for snakes! ” warned 




COLD NEEYE 159 

Douglas, striking for his v/andering attention. He got 
it. Bill faced him again. 

“ Snakes! Whatcha mean ? 

“ Sanders has a fondness for snakes—^bad ones. 
He may have a few around where you can step on 
them. Keep your eyes peeled/’ 

At that moment sounded a soft thump at the side 
of the barn. Ward started to turn. 

Copperheads—rattlers—poisonous!” asserted 
Douglas loudly. “ Watch out for ’em! ” 

Ward’s eyes hung on his a couple of seconds longer, 
held by the warning. Then he turned and looked to¬ 
ward the bam. 

What’s that bump ? ” he muttered. 

“ Horse moving around, or a hog down below. 
Don’t forget tliose snakes.” 

Then Douglas looked. Only the old barn met his 
anxious gaze. Ward, after a speculative glance 
around, nodded and started away. 

“All right. See you later, maybe. So long.” 

Followed by Bill, he stepped briskly to the road. 
Along the lumpy wheel-ruts in the sand they trudged, 
their voices floating back in growling tones that boded 
ill for somebody. Then the roadside brush-growth 
blotted out their receding figures, and the only sound 
was the cheerful chorus of the crickets in the grass. 


CHAPTER XV 


FIRE AND FROST . 

Douglas took a long breath. Uncle Eb swung to 
him. 

“ Wha'd ye do with him?” he hoarsely asked. 

In guarded tones Douglas outlined the ruse which 
had saved Steve. As he finished he strode out to the 
side of the road and looked down it. The two man- 
hunters still were in sight, plodding along without a 
backward look. 

“ By mighty! YeVe got a head onto ye like a tack, 
son,” congratulated Eb, who had followed. “ Right 
after I told them fellers to look into the hawg-pen I 
nigh got a shock—it come to me ye might of hid the 
boy into thar. Thank Gawd ye was here—I dunno 
what I’d done without ye-” 

“ All right. Now listen. You go back and get 
Steve under cover again quick. Those fellows may 
not be so well convinced as they seem to be, and they 
might double back after they’re out of sight. I’m go¬ 
ing to follow them up now and see if they keep on 
going. I’ll be back.” 

As he spoke. Bill and Ward faded from sight around 
a little curve. He strode away after them. Uncle Eb 
hastened to the barn. 

Along the straight open stretch of road—perhaps 

i6o 



FIRE ARD FROST 


161 


forty yards from house to curve—Douglas traveled 
at a half-lope. As he went, a smile grew on his mouth, 
culminating in a chuckle. 

‘‘ Hammerless Hampton, you’re an obstructionist, a 
conspirator against the majesty of the law, a dis¬ 
reputable character all around,” he told himself. 

And sooner or later—probably sooner—you’re going 
to get yourself in bad. When Brooklyn Bill gets back 
to the river, for instance, he may query New York 
and learn that you’re disowned by the Whirl, and so 
on. And then what ? ” 

Instead of growing serious at the thought of that 
possibility, however, he laughed all the more as he 
imagined Bill’s lurid language on learning that he had 
been duped. He* was still laughing when he reached 
the bend. But there, in one instant, his face froze. 

A few rods farther on stood the pair of officers. 
Their backs were toward him, their shoulders touched, 
their burly bodies blocked the narrow way. Beyond 
their legs showed a skirt. 

The skirt was jerking about, and under it bare 
ankles moved quickly, as if the woman or girl were 
struggling to get away. The shoulders of one of the 
men, too, moved as if his hands were gripping an 
active prisoner. Then the men swung apart an in¬ 
stant, and in the space between them gleamed sunlit 
red hair. 

Douglas bounded forward, his feet making little 
noise in the soft sand. Before the intent couple heard 
him he was upon them. Straight between them he 
plunged, shoving them violently asunder. From the 


1G2 


CAT-O’-MOUNTAm 


girl broke a cry. She was Marion, and both her 
wrists were clutched in the heavy fists of Bill. 

“ Hey! Ya big bum, whatcha doin' ? " Bill blared 
furiously. Ward’s face too was dark with anger over 
the thump he had received, and one hand hung men¬ 
acingly at his hip. 

“ I’ll show you mighty sudden what I’m doing! Let 
her go! ” 

Bill released the girl—^but not in obedience to the 
command. He did it because he wanted to use his 
hands on Douglas more than on her. Ugly-jawed, he 
stepped forward. 

Douglas stepped back, handed his gun to Marion, 
and fronted Bill with fists poised for the first parry 
and counter-punch. Marion sprang aside, face ablaze 
with wrath, gun up. Ward, seeing Douglas give up 
the weapon to her and stand bare-handed, relaxed 
from his tense poise and swiftly grew cool. 

Bill shot a vicious punch at the blond man’s chin— 
a straight drive which would have downed his man 
if it had landed. But Douglas ducked to the left and 
snapped a retaliating right for the beefy jaw. 'It 
halted short—his wrist caught and held by Ward. 
Now Ward yanked him back. 

“Two to one, eh?” raged Douglas. “All 
right-” 

“ No! ” clipped Ward. Gripping the blond man’s 
arms, he swung himself between the antagonists. 
“ Let up! Same goes for you. Bill! Cut it! ” 

With a powerful shove he sent Douglas staggering 
backward, at the same time releasing his hold, 



FIRE AND FROST 163 

“ That’ll be about all! ” he snapped^ “ Drop this 
where it is.” 

“I’m not dropping it!” panted Douglas. “Man¬ 
handling girls may get by down where you come from, 
but it doesn’t go with me. Officers? Pah! You 
cheap thugs-” 

“ That’ll do! ” Ward repeated. “ You listen to me 
a minute.” 

His steady gaze, his resolute tone, his quiet author¬ 
ity, had their effect. Despite himself, Douglas re¬ 
spected the man. He stood still. 

“ I ain’t blamin’ you,” Ward continued evenly. 
“ You act like a man. But the girl brought it on her¬ 
self—and she ain’t hurt a bit. Bill oughtn’t have 
grabbed her, maybe, but that’s his way. I don’t like it 
myself—him and me have had words about that kind 
of stuff before—but the girl ain’t hurt and she 
wouldn’t be hurt, whether you butted in or not. We 
only asked her somethin’ about the road, and she 
sassed us and tried to shove Bill off into the ditch. He 
grabbed her hands and told her to learn some man¬ 
ners, and then she tried to fight him, so naturally he 
hung onto her. That’s all there is to it. I’d drop it, 
if I was you.” 

Douglas looked at her. True enough, she showed 
no sign of hurt, except perhaps to her vivid temper. 
Ward’s straightforward manner was convincing. So 
were the memories of his own denunciation by the 
girl on the night when he had met her and of her fiery 
fight that morning to regain her sketch. And so were 
the words of Marion herself. 



164 


CAT-0^-M0UNTAIJS[ 


“ You big hog! ” she flared, holding the gun pointed 
at Bill as if aching to use it. “ You better git outen 
the Traps and stay out 1 My manners are good enough 
for me and my folks, and if you wasn’t brought up to 
give other folks half of the road you can’t learn me 
anything. You keep on actin’ like you started, and 
somebody’ll shoot some manners into you, I shouldn’t 
wonder. I’ve got a good mind to do it my own self! ” 

Under the lash of her tongue, the blaze of her eyes, 
and the menace of the twin muzzles yawning at his 
midriff, Bill blinked rapidly and stepped backward. 
Ward too looked uneasy—for an angry woman and a 
gun make a decidedly dangerous combination; the 
more so, because the woman may shoot without ac¬ 
tually realizing what she is doing. 

“ That gun loaded ? ” he muttered to Douglas. 

“ Sure. But the safety’s on and she doesn’t know 
the mechanism. Of course, she might accidentally 
' slip it, and then—^your pal wouldn’t look very good. 
I’d advise you two to make tracks down the road and 
keep on making them. And one word more to you. 
Ward. You talk straight, and I’ll let this drop for 
now; but you’d better pick another running-mate be¬ 
fore you go again among hill people. This man might 
do as a Bowery cop or a prison guard, but he’s no good 
in wildcat country.” 

Ward nodded about a quarter of an inch, as if he 
agreed, and studied his mate with a slightly disgusted 
look. Then he shrewdly appraised the girl behind the 
gun. When he spoke again there was a little twinkle 
of admiration in his eye. 


FIRE ARD FROST 


165 


Wildcat country's right Don’t blame you for 
hangin’ around this neck of the woods, Hampton. 
Don’t blame you a-tall. Well, so long. Bill! ” 

The last word crackled. Bill, still edging away from 
the gaping muzzles, obeyed Ward’s thumb-jerk along 
the road. Passing Douglas, he paused to glower 
hatefully into the slitted blue eyes watching him. 
Then he shuffled onward. 

Not until they had rounded another turn did 
Douglas take his unswerving gaze from their backs. 
Then, as he relaxed, he realized that Ward had shown 
no suspicion over his sudden appearance; recalled, 
too, the twinkle and the parting remarks. ' The man 
had thought he and Marion had a tryst. Could he 
have looked back through the trees, however, and 
studied the girl, he would have begun to wonder. 

Douglas, too, wondered as he looked at her. The 
snap of anger had vanished from her eyes, the flush 
from her cheeks, the girlishness from her figure. The 
gray orbs watching him now were cold as ice—ice 
with a smouldering flame far below its surface. Her 
face and her poise were as stony as any upright bowl¬ 
der standing under Dickie Barre. From one hand 
hung his gun, its muzzles now buried in the sand. 
Straight, forbidding, she stood looking fixedly at him. 
And, though he was not expecting any thanks for what 
he had done, he stood staring blankly back at her. 
This was a girl whom he never had seen before. 

“Well! What’s wrong?” he puzzled. “Seems to 
be a sudden frost.” 

Unspeaking, she lifted the gun and held it toward 


166 


CAT-O’-MOUNTAIN 


him. He took it, peered at it as if seeking on it the 
cause of her hauteur, looked up and found her turning 
away. She took half a dozen steps toward the Wil- 
ham home, straight as an Indian, proud as a princess, 
before he moved. Then he began striding after her. 
At once she stopped. 

“ Thought you was goin' the other way,^’ she said 
pointedly. 

“ Did you? Well, I'm going this way now." 

I’d ruther you’d go on to where you started for.’’ 

His mouth tightened a little. 

I would,’’ he coolly informed her, but I told 
Uncle Eb I’d come back.’’ 

‘‘ Oh. Then I’ll wait. Go ’long.’’ 

Again he stared. As before, she met him eye to 
eye, cold and uncompromising. 

“ What’s wrong, Marion ? ’’ he repeated. “ I don’t 
understand.’’ 

Don’t you ? I should think you might, if you’d 
think back a little ways. Now I don’t want to walk 
with you.’’ 

His chin lifted. “ Oh. I see. It’s Steve. All 
right. But if he’s still at Uncle Eb’s I’ll tell him 
you’re coming. I won’t be there long.’’ 

She started. 

“ No—what—how’d you know he’s—what you got 
to do with Steve ? ’’ 

Ask Steve. He’ll tell you all about it. Good-day." 

With that he was off. She stood motionless, watch¬ 
ing his receding shoulders, her head lifted at the same 
proud angle. But, as he disappeared around the curve 


FIRE AND FROST 


167 


from which he had sprung to her rescue, that haughty 
head slowly drooped. She set her teeth into one red 
lip. The clear gray eyes became blurred with tears. 

Beyond the curve, Douglas stalked rapidly on. Into 
the Wilham yard he marched with never a backward 
glance, and, after a quick look toward the barn, up 
into the open doorway of the house. Uncle Eb, cheek 
bulging with a chunk of bread-and-cheese, nodded to 
him from the table where he was devouring his belated 
cold lunch. 

“ Shet the door," he suggested. Douglas closed it. 
“ Them fellers gone?" 

“ They're on their way. They're sore at each other 
now, as well as at Sanders. Where's our friend? " 
Down cellar. Ther's a winder he can git out by if 
he has to. What's tliem fellers mad 'bout now ? " 

Douglas briefly told him. Uncle Eb stopped chew¬ 
ing, looked at him keenly, cackled out all at once, then 
wondered: ‘‘ Why didn't Marry come 'long with ye? " 

‘‘ I don't know. Said she didn't want to walk with 
me. So I jest walked right 'long by my own self." 

The old man looked quizzically at him, then cackled 
again. 

“ Ye're a-gittin’ to talk like ye b'longed into the 
Traps," he chuckled. ‘‘ An' after what ye done this 
afternoon, boy, ye do b'long! 'Most anybody with the 
right kind of a heart round here would a-helped that 
pore misfortunit boy, but 'tain’t every feller from out¬ 
side, like you, would a-done it. An' that Marry gal— 
she prob’ly thinks ye're a detective, like the rest. 
She'll soon know dif'rent." 


168 


CAT^O^-MOUIITAIN 


** Never mind. But now, Uncle Eb, I don't like to 
ask questions that don't concern me, but just what 
did Steve do that sent him to the pen ? " 

Uncle Eb hesitated, chewed hard, swallowed, and 
gulped a noisy drink of cold coffee. 

“ The wust thing into the world, son—he got caught. 
He never done no harm, but gittin' caught for a thing 
is 'nough, whether ye done it or not. S'posin' we let 
him talk for hisself." 

He stamped twice on the floor. A couple of minutes 
later a door silently opened and Steve stepped up from 
the cellar stairs. After one glance he leaped to 
Douglas' side and gripped his hand. 

“ Hamp!" he gulped. Ye're a white man! I 
ain't a-goin' to forgit this. Jest wait till I git my 

chance to pay ye some way-” 

“ Oh, forget it! Man alive, I don’t want any pay. 
If you owe anything to anybody it's to Uncle Eb, not 
to me. I just blundered in and had a lot of fun with 
those fellows. Uncle Eb's the one to thank.". 

“ I ain't a-forgittin' Uncle Eb—he knows it. But 
the way ye took holt-” 

All right, all right, let it slide. But now, if you 
don't mind telling me, what's it all about? What are 
those fellows after you for? Don't tell me if you 
don't want to." 

Why, don't ye know? Wal, if that ain’t- Ye 

jest went ahead an' helped me anyways, huh? My 
Gawd! I didn't s'pose there was sech folks into the 
world. 

It's this way, Hamp. We pick a lot o' berries 





FIRE AND FROST 


169 


round here into the summer—not right here into the 
Traps, but 'way over to Long Pond an' miles an' miles 
further ’long the mount’ins—an' sell 'em to 'dealers. 
An' other fellers come from down b’low to do the same 
—it'd take a hull army to pick 'em all, they're so thick. 
Some o' them fellers are pretty hard. An' when some 
of us folks from here was pickin' round Three-Mile 
Post, I fit with the Bump boys—three of 'em, broth¬ 
ers, that lived down 'bout a mile outside o' the Wall 
over yender, onto the road to Paltz. 

“ Wal, they licked me—three of 'em, all bigger'n 
me. They licked me bad. Course, I was crazy mad, 
an' I swore to Gawd I'd come down outen the Traps 
some day an' buckshoot 'em, an' bum their house an' 
I dunno what all. But there was four weeks more o* 
pickin', an' the Bumps went somewheres else, an' I 
got cooled off, an' by the time I got back here to the 
Traps I'd made up my mind to leave 'em 'lone. An' 
I did. 

‘ Wal, it run 'long awhile, an' huntin' season come, 
an' then one night Snake Sanders got me full o' 
licker an’ says we’ll go down b’low an' git us some 
coons—he knowed where we could git a passel of 'em. 
I'd oughter knowed better’n to go anywheres with him, 
but I was fool 'nough to go ’long, an' he gimme more 
licker, an' we tromped an’ tromped, an' I had more 
licker, an' so on. An' then, fust thing I knowed, we 
was nigh a house an' barn, an' our coon-dog warn't 
nowheres round, an' I was gittin' awful drunk. An' 
Snake says, * Lay down awhile an' ye'll feel better.' 
An' I laid down. 


170 


CAT-O^-MOUNTAm 


“ Then, next I knowed, my gun blew off —hung 
hung! —an’ men was runnin’ an’ bosses screechin’ an’ 
the barn was all afire, a-blarin’ out all round so ’twas 
light as day. An’ Snake was gone, an’ all to once I 
see ’twas the Bump place that was afire, an’ somethin’ 
told me to git. So I run as fast as ever I could, never 
takin’ my gun or nothin’. But bimeby I was way up 
the road, an’ it was all dark, an’ I got tired an’ set 
down to rest. An’ then the licker got a-holt o’ me an’ 
I went off to sleep. 

“ Wal, that was the end o’ me. They found me 
a-layin’ into the road an’ they pounded me ’most to 
death an’ drug me out an’ tried me for arson an’ 
’tempted murder an’ I dunno what all. I didn’t have 
no more chance than a baby chipmunk into a hawk’s 
nest. I couldn’t prove nothin’, and they wouldn’t 
b’lieve nothin’, an’ they got proof o’ what I’d swore 
to do to them Bumps, an’'—they gimme the limit. 

An’ these three years I been doin’ time an’ gittin’ 
knocked round an’—oh Gawd! An’ Snake, he’s been 
a-settin’ up here lafiin’ at me an’ the Bumps—he was 
ag’in ’em, I dunno what for, an’ he used me to git all 
the blame for burnin’ up their place an’ their bosses 
an’ pigs an’ shootin’ Charlie Bump—Charlie he got 
buckshot into him an’ the hull place was burnt—an’ 

I got the limit—but I’ll git him—I’ll git him-” 

He was growing incoherent, his eyes glazing with 
concentrated hate and fury. ' Douglas thumped 
him repeatedly on the shoulder and broke in on his 
talk. 

All right, Steve,, all right 1 Buck up, now I Your 



FIRE Al^D FROST 171 

turn’s coming—take a grip on yourself! Keep your 
head until those bulls leave, and lie low.” 

The youth gritted his teeth and swallowed hard. 

I’m a-layin’ low,” he asserted hoarsely. “ I’m 
a-keepin’ my head an’ my grip. I ain’t a-goin’ back to 
no pen. But when oncet I git to a gun-” 

He swallowed again and pawed with one lean hand 
at his throat. Douglas nodded, his own face sombre. 
Uncle Eb cleared his throat like a gunshot. 

I don’t hold with shootin’ yer enemies,” he erupted. 

I never yit shot at a man, an’ I don’t b’lieve into it. 
Still an’ all, I dunno as I blame ye much. But ye got 
to lay lower than ever now, an’ lay somewheres else. 
Snake sent them fellers here—they as good as said so 
—an’ they’ll be back, I bet. Come dark. I’ll take ye 
over into the rocks. I got some old clo’es an’ a hoss- 
blankit ye can wrop up into, an’ I’ll send ye food right 
’long reg’lar if Marry’ll take it—she’s spryer than I 
be.” 

“ And I’ll be going now,” Douglas added. “ I’m 
keeping her waiting. She’s down the road, Steve— 
wouldn’t walk with me. Take care of yourself—and 
of her. So long.” 

Before Steve or Uncle Eb could reply he was out 
of the house. Across the road he went, pausing a 
moment to beckon to the stubborn little red-haired 
figure which now, walking very slowly, was approach¬ 
ing from the curve. She made no answering signal, 
gave no sign that she saw him. Climbing over the 
stone wall beyond, he marched away across-lots, face 
set stiffly toward the frowning wall of Dickie Barre 
and the invisible Clove Road. 



CHAPTER XVI 


THE MOVING PINGER WRITES 

One by one the October days and nights stole in 
from the nebulous realm of To-morrow and, like 
pearls magically taking form on an enchanted thread 
of gold, added themselves to the memory-gems of 
Yesterday. Each morning found a new jewel vaguely 
appearing out of the wan dawn-light; every passing 
hour imperceptibly shaped the growing form; each 
rising moon looked down on the completely rounded 
treasure, nestling beside its mates which had come be¬ 
fore. No two were quite alike, for each was tinted 
with its own delicate hues—the flush of a rosy sun¬ 
rise, the blue of the sky and the gray of the clouds, 
the leaden tinge of rain, the sombre shadows of dusk, 
the brilliant gleams of the stars. Yet no one of them 
was all-sufficient; it was the blending, the intermin¬ 
gling, of all of them that produced, or would produce, 
the perfect circle. 

And as the unseen hand of their Maker placed on 
each its own peculiar tints, so the gentle fingers of 
Mother Nature also worked unceasingly on the mantle 
she had worn since the springtime, weaving into its 
monotone new and ever-changing touches of color. 
This was her play-day, this season between the sum- 

172 


TEE MOVIE a FIEOERlVniTEE 173 

mer and the snow ; and with scarlet and crimson, with 
yellow and cream, with the palest of green and the 
rustiest brown, she transformed her emerald cloak 
into a gay robe on which the dusky evergreens, 
hitherto merged into the sweeping expanse of verdure, 
now stood out bold and clear. Too, by night she 
painted dingy house-roofs and rickety wagons and all 
the other ugly man-made things—painted them gray- 
white with frost, which the new sun quickly blackened 
and sent creeping down the shingles to drip gently 
from the eaves of a morning. And as that sun 
mounted the Wall and rolled its warmth over into the 
Traps below, she coyly loosed white clouds of mist to 
go drifting along over the new colors she had made in 
the dark hours, presently to draw them aside and re¬ 
veal to human eyes the glory of her handiwork. 

Yet it was love’s labor lost, this wondrous wizardry 
of hers—or almost lost. Of all the eyes which daily 
opened in the Traps, few gave more than a casual 
glance to all the enchantment wrought around them. 
Most of those eyes turned inward upon the stomachs 
of their owners, seeing only the ‘‘ pannicakes ” and 
gravy, the “ buttermilk pop ” and other components of 
breakfast; or they looked at pigs and hens and cows. 
Few indeed were those who lifted up their thoughts 
to the gorgeous hills surrounding them, and fewer still 
those who, glimpsing what lay before them, were 
moved to admire for even a passing minute. In the 
flaming woods they visioned only animals and birds to 
be killed, millstones to be rifted, hardwood to be 
“ mined ” into charcoal, hoops to be shaved, and secret 


174 CAT-O^-MO VNTAm 

coverts'where nameless industry might be carried on 
in stealth. 

But there were two in the Traps who saw. At their 
doorways in the morning they looked long at the 
limited sections of the panorama which were visible 
from their respective abodes, noting the added touches 
of color laid on during the silent hours of sleep. 
Through the day, as they traversed the byways on 
self-imposed missions, they paused often to gaze at 
some striking bit of natural beauty near at hand or 
to dwell upon the vistas opening out around them at 
some higher point. In the twilight they sat somewhere 
in silent solitude, watching the deepening of the dusk 
and the shy appearance of the first night stars in the 
darkening blue. These two were a blond-haired man 
and a red-haired girl, who lived in little houses on the 
road leading to the Clove. 

Yet, though they looked on the same things, though 
their souls were lifted up in the same way, though 
they dwelt not far apart and their minds turned toward 
each other many a time as the tinted days glided away, 
they saw nothing of each other. The little bare feet 
and the sturdy booted feet never turned into the same 
path. They came and went, they paused and passed 
on, they traveled open road and faint trail—^but never 
together. Between them stood a wall: a cold, stony, 
stubborn wall which had suddenly thrust itself up out 
of the ground as if conjured by the wand of an old- 
time magician. And on that side of the wall facing 
the man were graven words spoken by the girl: 

“ I don't Vv^ant to walk with you." 


THE. MOYIHa FINGER WRITES. 175 


On the other side—the side which the girl saw—the 
wall bore other words: malicious words, evil words, 
which yet had the ring of truth: words spoken not by 
the man, but about the man, by others. And beside 
those words burned a picture which made her >vrithe 
and set her teeth into a red lip—a picture of herself 
held unresisting in that man’s arms, beside the plash¬ 
ing Coxing Kill. And atop that wall, leering down 
at both of them alike, squatted the ugly little demon 
who has wrecked many a life and .will wreck many 
more: Pride. 

But for the presence of that malevolent imp, with 
his taunting grin and his hissing repetition of the 
rankling words, either of these two could have walked 
straight through that wall. But there he perched by 
day and by night, his claw-like fingers pointing ever 
downward at the unfading words and picture, his 
sneering grimace repelling them from taking the first 
step toward each other. So, instead of moving toward 
the barrier, each turned from it and traveled along it 
or away from it—the girl traversing her own chosen 
paths toward Dickie Barre, the home of Uncle Eb, the 
upper reaches of Coxing Kill; the man roving along 
the slopes of Mohonk, sitting for hours on the brink 
of the Wall, or circling westward around the Clove 
end of Dickie Barre and onward into the gorge of 
cascading Peters Kill. 

Still, though the little demon drove them to avoid 
the spots where they were likely to meet, he could not 
follow them and regulate their varying thoughts and 
acts. His place was on that barrier, and on it he 


176 


CAT-O^-MOUIITAm 


stayed. And thus he could not prevent the man from 
mentally living over at intervals a certain golden hour 
beside a deep green pool up above, nor keep from that 
man’s eyes a gentle, far-away look when that memory 
arose to keep him company. Neither could he block 
the girl from returning repeatedly to that pool with 
pencil and paper and crude sketching-board, nor close 
her ears to the farewell words of the man: 

“ Keep right on doing that—it’s worth while— 
you’re doing fine.” 

So the pair traveled their separate ways. And, 
traveling, Douglas noted that the new clothing of the 
hardwood forests was not the only change taking 
place round about him. Here and there in the woods 
he met men. And, as subtly as the chill of frosty 
morning gave way to the warmth of a sunny day, so 
the first coolness of these men of the Traps now was 
thawing into an intangible spirit of friendliness. 
Where previously they had given him a cold stare and 
curt replies or stony silence when addressed, now their 
faces relaxed at sight of him, and of their own voli¬ 
tion they called: “ H’are ye. Hammerless! ” 

Moreover, when he paused awhile to watch them 
rounding millstones into shape or cutting cordwood 
for charcoal, they betrayed no desire to have him 
move on. On the contrary, they went ahead with 
their toil as if he were one of their own neighbors, 
welcome to stay as long as he liked. Sometimes, too, 
they took a rest and smoked a pipe with him, saying 
little of their own accord, but answering without hesi¬ 
tation whenever he spoke. And when he moved along 


THE MOVIHG FINGER WRITES 177 


and left them, their “ g’by ” was as unobtrusively 
cordial as their greeting. 

As the days drifted by and his wandering feet bore 
him into repeated contact with some of those men, 
the conversations became still more easy and natural 
—though never intimate. They talked of their work, 
and he learned interesting things: that millstone cut¬ 
ters, despite their hardy appearance and muscular de¬ 
velopment, usually died fairly young because the stone- 
dust entering the lungs caused tuberculosis; that char¬ 
coal-burning meant much exposure to inclement 
weather and constant vigilance, day and night, lest the 
vents of the smoking mound become plugged and the 
whole “ mine explode; that hoop-shaving, the main 
industry of the region, was steadily falling off because 
barrel-makers were adopting the patent ” hoops man¬ 
ufactured by mills; that honey-hunting, though pro¬ 
ductive of a passable revenue to the few whose in¬ 
stincts led them to follow it up, was arduous, uncer¬ 
tain, and often dangerous work because of the rough¬ 
ness of the country, its unexpected pitfalls, and its 
deadly snakes. And hunting and trapping, though 
fairly remunerative if one happened to have a lucky 
season, could hardly be considered a dependable source 
of income. 

These and other things of the same sort he learned 
in the course of those recurring smoke-talks. He 
heard, too, the same phrase repeated by different men 
regarding their different industries—a dog’s life.” 
But he observed also that the men labored faithfully 
on in that dog’s life, and more than once there re- 


178 


CAT-O’-MOUIITAIN 


curred to him Uncle Eb’s defense of his neighbors: 
“ Folks is mostly honest round here. Good, hard¬ 
working fellers.^^ 

The old man had spoken truth, it appeared. Though 
a few worthless drones might exist here and there, 
though more than one man might carry on surrepti¬ 
tious business “ up into the rawcks,” the Traps seemed 
to be inhabited mainly by steady toilers, wringing a 
primitive living from field and tree and stone and 
berry-bush. Still, Douglas did not lose sight of the 
fact that these workers did not compose the entire 
population. Nor did he fail to observe that the con¬ 
versation of even those who seemed most friendly was 
tinged by reticence. 

Of their work, of hunting and trapping, of snakes 
and catamounts and other life, of weather and crops— 
of these things they would talk freely; but of one an¬ 
other they would say no word. Let a name be men¬ 
tioned—even that of well-beloved Uncle Eb—and a 
silence would follow. True, there were two names 
which brought to their faces expressions as eloquent 
as words: Snake Sanders and Nat Oaks. At the first 
their eyes would narrow; at the second, their lips 
would turn down in contempt. But no comment, good 
or bad, was spoken of any one. It was borne in on 
the wanderer that, though civilly received, he still was 
not considered one of them; and that against all out¬ 
siders these hillmen, whatever their private opinions 
of one another, were a united clan. 

In other little ways, too, this was shown. No man 
ever asked him for tobacco or match. No man ever, 


THE MOYIHG FINGER WRITES 179 


quizzed him as to his past, present, or future. No 
man betrayed friendly anxiety regarding his move¬ 
ments. None offered to sell him milk or eggs, or in¬ 
vited him to visit. Nor, though every one of them 
looked wistfully now and then at his up-to-date gun, 
did any one ask to be allowed to examine it—much 
less to handle it. Between him and them, as between 
him and Marion, stood an impalpable wall—though not 
the same wall. This was the barrier of clannish re¬ 
serve. 

It was in this same clannishness, however, that he 
found the key to their more friendly attitude. Though 
not much given to analyzing the motives of others, he 
naturally meditated on the change in their manner; 
and the solution came in a name which he never men¬ 
tioned to them and which never was spoken in his 
hearing—Steve. 

Though nothing ever was said about the refugee, he 
felt that the whole Traps clan knew Steve was here. 
And, since the thaw in the previous frigidity of the 
Trapsmen had come about since the afternoon when 
he had hoisted the desperate youth to the roof and 
badgered his pursuers into leaving the Wilham place 
empty-handed, it was not hard to deduce that the hill- 
dwellers also knew of what he had done that day. If 
so, they must know that he was neither detective nor 
criminal; for in the one case he would have worked 
with the officers, while in the other he would hardly 
have dared face them down. Therefore they now 
must regard him as what he actually was: a transient 
dweller here who had shown himself disposed to stand 


180 


CAT-O^-MOUISITAIII 


with them in protecting their own, but who presently 
would go back to his own world—and who, conse¬ 
quently, need not be trusted with information con¬ 
cerning any of them. 

Very well: he could be as taciturn as any of them. 
And he was. He gave no information regarding him¬ 
self, sought none about others—with one exception. 
And to that one exception the reply also was an ex¬ 
ception, for it came readily, with a little grin of un¬ 
derstanding. 

**Heard anything of a couple of strangers?” was 
his occasional question. To which came the prompt 
response: Hearn they was still round here.” 

No man ever admitted that he had seen those 
strangers, or vouchsafed any additional details of what 
he had hearn.” But with that answer Douglas was 
content, for it showed that Ward and Bill had not run 
down their prey. Of Uncle Eb he saw nothing, for he 
spent little time at his own house and did not visit 
that of the old man. He felt, however, that the ref¬ 
ugee was safely hidden somewhere among the ledges 
and faithfully fed, that Eb could take care of Eb very 
well, and that the less he himself knew about either 
of them at present the better all around. 

Of others who had entered his life recently he also 
saw nothing in his daily rambles. Whatever Snake 
Sanders and Nigger Nat Oaks might be doing, they 
seemed to be avoiding his vicinity for the present. 
Each evening on returning to his haunted house he 
narrowly inspected both it and its clearing before en¬ 
tering, and afterward he looked into every room before 


THE MOVING FINGER WRITES 181 


preparing his night meal. Invariably he found all as 
he had left it. And when, healthily tired by his miles 
of tramping, he sought early slumber, even the ghostly 
Dalton's Death failed to disturb him. 

Not that the “ ha'nt" was laid. It still walked about 
overhead, still stole down-stairs on its heels, still 
rustled the mattress of dead Jake Dalton and moved 
his bedstead. Perhaps, in the silent watches of the 
night, it did other things as well. If so, its restless¬ 
ness meant nothing to the new tenant, who slept the 
sleep of a tired body and a clear conscience, awaking 
only at long intervals to hear some unaccountable 
sound and then, with a drowsy smile, drifting away 
again into dreamland. 

Much of his easy rest, however, may have been due 
to the fact that he had changed beds. After the hne 
storm" cleared up he had acted on his decision to 
move out of reach of that too-convenient front window 
and door. He had cleaned out the little room where 
wood was piled, and on its floor he had built up a 
quieter, more fragrant couch of his own: a foot-thick 
layer of hemlock and spruce tips gleaned from the 
trees behind the house. On this real camper’s bed he 
now slept, leaving Dalton’s bedstead and noisy mat¬ 
tress just as he had first found them. Each morning 
before leaving the house, though, he carried his blan¬ 
kets to that front bedroom and tossed them on the 
corn-husks. Thus, if any one came spying in his ab¬ 
sence, the curtainless bedroom window would tell that 
spy that he habitually slept where he was supposed to 
sleep. A childishly simple ruse, perhaps, this was. 


182 CAT‘0^-M0U1^TAIN 

Yet life or death sometimes hangs on the simplest 
things. 

And so, as has been said, the days brought their 
lights and shadows, the nights their stars and dreams; 
and within the ken of Hammerless Hampton nothing 
at all happened. Yet, unseen, the fingers of Destiny 
were steadily writing upon the pages of her future- 
book certain records which no mere mortal now could 
glimpse or guess. 

Then, one lazy afternoon when he happened to be 
at his bare little home, there recurred to him the tale 
of Lou Brackett concerning the lost mine of the leg¬ 
endary Ninety-Nine. 

“ Where the sun first strikes the wall in the morning, 
there is Ninety-Nine’s Mine,” ran the saying which 
the simple-minded woman had confided so mysteri¬ 
ously to him. The “ wall,” of course, was the cliit- 
line within the Traps, not the great outer wall. Whim¬ 
sically he decided to sleep that night upon the eastern 
heights and see just where the rising sun would strike 
first. Sunrise on the Traps, viewed from that lofty 
edge of things, would be a scene well worth a chilly 
night outdoors. 

With a pack of blankets and spare clothing and a 
little food he started to go. But, with a boyish laugh, 
he returned to the house. From some old burlap bags 
and a few sticks of wood he made on Jake Dalton’s 
bed a huddle which, in dim light, would resemble a 
blanketed form. Then he departed, whistling merrily. 

Dusk found him high up on the Wall. At the same 
hour a form slipped out from the trees backing the 


THE MOYIHG FINGER WRITES 183 


house of Dalton. It peered nervously in at a gloomy 
window, stole along the side, slipped rapidly to the 
front stoop, and, with a quick jab, slid a piece of paper 
under the door. Then it jumped away and ran. 

On the paper was written in scrawling characters: 

“For gord Sakes dont Sleep hear to Nite,“ 


CHAPTER XVII 


I 


A STAB IN THE NIGHT 

Rain drizzled monotonously down on the Traps; 
cold, raw rain swept slantwise by wind. Along Mo- 
honk and the Great Wall crawled clammy fog, blinding 
all vision and chilling all flesh within its folds. 
Through rain and fog feebly penetrated the sickly 
light of a dismal dawn. 

In the dankness and the dimness moved a bedraggled 
figure laden with a sodden blanket-pack and a drip¬ 
ping shotgun; a man whose blue lips and hollow eyes 
betokened a gnawing chill and scant sleep. Down¬ 
ward through dripping bushes he meandered uncer¬ 
tainly, avoiding steep slants of.smooth rock on which 
his slippery boot-soles would inevitably precipitate him 
into disaster, and peering continuously about in search 
for a thin spot in the creeping cloud-bank. Only the 
unmistakable slant of the mountainside told him which 
way he was heading—^back into the Traps gulf which 
he had left on the previous day. 

A gorgeous sunrise—I guess so! he grumbled. 
“ Mister Jupiter Pluvius, this is a dirty, low-down 
trick. And Mister Ninety-Nine, you can keep your 
mine till the crack of doom, for all I care. Go to 
thunder, both of you! I’m cured.” 

If the two old-timers whom he addressed were 

184 


A STAB IN THE NIGHT 


185 


listening, they must have chortled in malicious mirth— 
especially the former. Catching this mortal asleep 
beside a dying fire, the rain-god had called up his 
soggy servitors in the night and let them wreak their 
will on the lone man—drowning his fire in the first 
drenching assault and then battering him right mer¬ 
rily. Without shelter, without light, he had been com¬ 
pelled to huddle up and endure it until dawn; and even 
now, though he was in motion once more, he had to 
shut his teeth to keep them from chattering. 

From side to side he wormed along his erratic way, 
swinging from one ghostly bush-clump to another, 
ever following the rambling line of safe footholds, 
gradually descending toward the lower edge of the 
enshrouding mist. After a time the bare rock ended 
and he came into dense forest where the footing was 
secure. Down through this he passed with swinging 
strides. The rain ceased, and the wind died to a 
breath. Faster and faster he pressed on, warmer now, 
but eager to reach his house and dry out. Then sud¬ 
denly he slowed. 

Dead ahead opened a cleared space, and beyond, 
vague in the gray-white blur, were the faint outlines 
of a rough shack. Scanning the place as he moved 
on, he became sure that it was one which he had not 
seen in his previous wanderings. The exterior of the 
house was decidedly uninviting, but from its lopsided 
chimney smoke was drifting thinly away into the fog. 
His stride lengthened again. Since the inhabitants of 
this house were up, he would stop there and ask for 
some hot coffee. 


186 


CAT‘0^‘M0UNTAI'N 


But the quick decision was as quickly reversed. 
As he neared the door it stealthily opened. Out stole 
Lou Brackett. 

“ Morning/’ he sang out, speeding up again. 
“ Lovely day.” 

She started, turned her head, looked behind, ad¬ 
vanced with hand uplifted for silence. He paused. 

“ Don’t talk so loud,” she implored as she reached 
him. “ Snake, he’s a-sleepin’, but ye might waken him 
up. What ye want round here ? ” 

“ Nothing. Just going home. Been up above and 
got wet.” Smiling a little, he added: “ I wanted to 
see where the sun hit the wall first in the morning, but 
it isn’t hitting to-day.” 

Into the black eyes came a sudden light. She laid a 
plump, not over-clean hand on his wet shoulder. 

“Ye’re a-huntin’ the mine! I bet ye’ll find it, too, 
if ye jest keep a-Iookin’ long ’nough. Ye ain’t got 
nawthin’ else to do—keep a-huntin’! An’ when ye 
git to it ’member ye promised me some o’ the silver. 
Will ye? An’ don’t tell nobody. Jest me an’ you— 
we can git outen here together then.” 

The broad hint brought a tart retort to his tongue, 
but he swallowed it. Instead he asked: “ So you still 
want to leave ? Why don’t you go, then ? ” 

She stared as if he had lost his senses. 

“ Go wher’ ? Go how ? I ain’t got no folks, mister— 
I ain’t got no place to go—I ain’t got no money—I 
ain’t got nawthin’. I ain’t never been nowheres—wha’d 
I do outside o’ the Traps? An’ Snake, he’d kill me 
sure’s shootin’, he would. ’Course, if I had some silver 



A STAB IN THE NIGHT 187 

or somethin'—but I ain’t got none. ’Less’n ye want to 
take me out with ye- 

No, I don’t,” he broke in bluntly. ” But you can 
get work in plenty of places outside where he never 
would bother you.” 

“ I can’t! ” she disputed, drawing back. “ Them 
that’s horned into the Traps lives into the Traps an’ 
dies into the Traps. Ther’ ain’t no place for us out¬ 
side.” 

“ All right. That doesn’t match very well with what 
you said about leaving, but never mind. How did you 
and Snake make out that day about—er—the bridge ? ” 
A slow smile spread across her face, revealing 
anew the gap in her teeth. 

“ Oh, we got ’long all right—I done what ye told me. 
He’d hearn ’bout it, but when he come at me I cracked 
him good with the sadiron an’ jumped onto him ’bout 
them Oakses. It kinder took the tuck outen him. 
But ”—her smile faded and her face turned hard— 
that red-head o’ Nat’s better leave my man ’lone! 
Fust thing she knows I’ll—wal, she better look out, 
tha’s all! ” 

“ What’s that ? Why, you’re crazy! She hates the 
sight of him. Don’t you start any trouble with her, or 
you’ll be mighty sorry. And what’s more, you can 
tell your man that unless he lets her alone he’ll run 
into something hard—the same thing that hit him on 

Dickie Barre awhile ago. She belongs to-” 

The next word on his tongue was “ Steve,” with 
more words to follow. But his habitual avoidance of 
that name suddenly stopped his speech. She grinned 




188 CAT-0’-M0VIITAIl!f 

sneeringly, interpreting his abrupt silence according to 
her lights. 

'' She does, hey ? Then ye better take her into yer 
own house an* watch her. Me an’ Snake don’t git 
’long none too well, but no red-headed catamount like 
her is a-goin’ to git him. He was down ther’ last 
night late, I know he was—he never tells me nawthin’, 
but I ain’t simple, an’ I know. He come back ’way 
’long late, an’ he hadn’t been a-drinkin’, an’ if he ain’t 
drinkin’ to Oaks’s what’s he a-doin’ ther’ ? 
He’s-” 

All at once she turned hurriedly, as if sensing some¬ 
thing in the house behind her. When she faced back 
she looked perturbed. 

“ I got to git in. He might waken up any time. 
G’by.” 

All right. But you mind what I told you! ” 

Without reply, she padded hastily doorward. 
Frowning, he pushed away down-hill. The door 
opened and softly closed, and the woman was gone. 
The mist sifted around the man, and he too was gone. 
And neither of them knew that Sanders, sleeping with 
one ear open, had started up at the sound of the in¬ 
truder’s first careless greeting and since then had 
watched snakily from the interior gloom. 

He had heard nothing of what was said, for he was 
in his bedroom, behind a shut door and a closed win¬ 
dow; and he had preferred to remain there, using his 
eyes rather than his ears, making no move. Further¬ 
more, something about the appearance of that man in 
the ghostly fog had seemed to paralyze him for a mo- 



A STAB IN THE NIGHT 


189 


ment when he first looked out. Then, recovering him¬ 
self, he had watched the colloquy with the eyes of evil, 
interpreting it with the brain of evil. And now, 
though again in bed and to all appearances asleep 
when the woman Lou stealthily peeped in at him, he 
was mentally gliding along a black, black path—like a 
copperhead slithering through a sunless morass 
wherein moved nameless things. 

Onward down the slope marched Douglas, scowling 
ahead at a well-marked path which his feet now were 
following but which his mind hardly noticed. The 
half-spoken threat of the woman behind against 
Marion Oaks bothered him. Primitive, ignorant, un¬ 
moral, willing to abandon her “ man ” for a better one 
but jealous of any other woman who might attract 
him—there was no knowing what she might do in some 
vindictive rage. Douglas was not one of those men 
who look on all women as children and scoff at their 
dangerous moods; his newspaper experience had re¬ 
peatedly brought him into contact with stark tragedies 
resulting from feminine jealousy; and he recalled the 
Indian cheek-bones of Lou. Marion, he felt, should 
be warned. 

But he shrank from the thought of delivering that 
warning himself. Not only was the role of tale-bearer 
utterly repugnant to him, but that wall of Pride loomed 
high and hard, as before. Moreover, the girl had re¬ 
peatedly shown that she wished her acquaintance with 
him to remain unknown, had commanded him to re¬ 
main away from Nigger Nat’s house. What, then, 
should he do? 


190 


CAT-O’-MOUl^TAIl^ 


The problem solved itself. The mist thinned, then 
lifted a little, and he found himself nearing the road, 
only a short distance above the Oaks place. And 
when, striding along the road itself, he approached the 
house of Nigger Nat, he saw both Marion and her 
“ mom ” outside the door, apparently looking around 
for some one. To his astonishment, Eliza Oaks hailed 
him. 

“ Say! See anythin' o’ my man anywheres ? ” 

“ Why, no. Lost him? ” He turned into the yard. 

“ I dunno. Ye didn’t see him up the road no- 
wheres ? ” 

“ Nope. But I haven’t been up the road very far. 
Just came down across-lots.” 

Her gaze went over him, taking in his thorough 
wetness and the soggy blanket-pack. His eyes turned 
to the girl, who had drawn back a little and was stead¬ 
fastly watching him. Over her thin dress she was 
wearing a ragged old coat, evidently the property of 
her father; and down the shoulders of the thread¬ 
bare garment, unconfined by the few pins which gen¬ 
erally held it up on her head, her hair cascaded in 
rippling glory. Meeting his eyes, her own contracted 
a little; but they held, unwavering. As swiftly as he 
had decided what to do for Steve that day at Uncle 
Eb’s, he determined what to do for her. 

“ Am I correct in assuming that this is Miss Marion 
Oaks?” he asked formally, with the tiniest droop of 
the off eyelid. 

You are,” she answered with a cold dignity match¬ 
ing his own. What of it? ” 


A STAB IN THE NIGHT 


191 


A subdued gurgle from the older woman drew his 
gaze to her. On her shrewish lips he found a sour 
smile. 

“Ye needn’t to be so awful perlite,” she drawled. 
“ Marry told me ’bout what ye done to that ’ere cata¬ 
mount, an’ how ye made them fellers leave her 
’lone onto the road, an’ ’bout—wal, we’re ’bliged to 
ye.” 

“ Good! Glad you know we’ve met before, I mean 
—there’s no obligation. Er—how does Nat feel about 
it?” 

A scowl wiped off the thin smile. After a moment 
of silence she answered guardedly: “ He dunno 
nawthin’ ’bout it.” 

“ I see. You don’t tell him all you know. Good 
idea, maybe. He’s still sore at me, then. All right. 
Just keep him away from me and we won’t have any 
trouble. I’m sorry I had to shoot up those dogs of 
yours, but-” 

“ Oh, ’t’s all right. I was mad then, but we’re better 
off ’thout ’em—they et niore’n they was wuth. An’ 
mebbe ye done right to crack Nat when he come for 
ye. He don’t mean no harm, Nat don’t, but he—he’s 
kind o’ funny—he gits spells when he ain’t his own 
self, like.” She looked worriedly around again. “ I 
wisht I knowed what’s ’come o’ him. He ain’t been 
to home all night.” 

Douglas eyed her, remembering what Lou had said 
—that Snake had been here until late last night. But 
then, feeling that the jealous woman might have been 
utterly mistaken in her statement, he kept his thought 



192 


CAT-O^-MOUIJTAIII 


to himself. As for Nat, he probably was drunk some¬ 
where. He turned to Marion. 

Miss Marion, Fve heard something which I think 
you ought to know,” he plunged. “ Er—well, a cer¬ 
tain woman up yonder thinks you and Snake Sanders 
are too friendly to suit her. It’s absurd, of course, 
but still—folks get queer ideas, and sometimes they 
do queer things, and—maybe you’d better—er—^keep 
your eyes open-” 

He floundered to a stop, reddening under the steady 
gray gaze, in which he read mounting scorn. Hu¬ 
miliated already by his position, he squirmed at her 
drawling answer. 

“ So that’s where you’ve been to. Ain’t Snake to 
home yet? You’re takin’ big chances, seems like. But 
that ain’t anything to me. You needn’t worry for me. 
Mister Hampton—I can take pretty good care of my 
own self. But you can tell your friend, when you see 
her the next time, if she’ll jest bust Snake’s head so 
he won’t never come to. I’ll be much ’bliged.” 

Before he could retort, her mother’s voice broke in. 

*‘That ’ere Lou’s a bigger fool ’n Snake, ’n’ he’s 
crazy ’nough. I ast him only yestiddy, says I, ‘ Ye 
mizzable idjit, how d’ye think ye’d ever git Marry 
when ye got Lou already? I’ve told ye time an’ time 
to keep outen here-’ ” 

She checked herself suddenly, as if regretting her 
outburst. The blond man’s eyes were on hers again, 
boring like ^mlets. 

“ So Snake was here last night,” he said. “ And 
jvhere was Nat? ” 




A JSTAB IN THE NIGHT 


193 


** Nat—he was here—it warn't last night—^twas in 
the aft’noon. Then they went away, an’ Nat ain’t 
back. I wisht I knowed-” 

Once more she looked up and down the road. 

Snake’s at home,” he told her. “ At least I was 
told he was, when I came by his place just now. 
Maybe Nat’s there with him. I don’t know. Well, 
good-day.” 

Without another look at the girl he swung about. 
At his first step, however, Marion stopped him. 

“ Wait a minute,” she said. As he glanced at her he 
found another change in her attitude. She still stood 
with unconscious dignity, but the smouldering scorn 
had died from her eyes, and her face had softened. 

I want to say thank you for what you done that 
day onto the road—makin’ that detective feller let go 
of me; and, more’n that, for helpin’ out—^you know 
who—up to Uncle Eb’s. And you meant all right by 
tellin’ me jest now to look out, I shouldn’t wonder. 
So I say thank you for that too. G’by.” 

With that she was gone into the house. He opened 
his mouth, shut it, glanced at Eliza Oaks, saw a faint 
smile in her face, and laughed shortly. With a wave 
of his free hand he started off again, and kept 

c • 

going. 

“ What a wayward, fiery little thoroughbred! ” he 
thought. “ Quick as a cat—now you see her mind 
and now you don’t. She made one awful fool of you, 
Hamp. Serves you right, too, confound you, with 
your tattling! But she thanked you, at that, like the 
real little lady she is. If she only had a chance to be 



194 


CAT-O’-MOUNTAIN 


somebody—if it weren’t for the black blood—and 
Steve- Lordy, what a woman she’d make 1 ” 

The thought kept revolving in his mind until he en¬ 
tered the fallow little field beside his bleak abode. 
Then it fled. 

His front door was open. 

Instinctively he slowed. His searching scrutiny re¬ 
vealed no other change in the house. Only that door, 
which he had made to fit tightly by tacking on strips, 
stood as if shoved back by a hurried entrance—or 
departure. 

** Wind ? ” he debated. “ Wind blew last night, but 
not hard. H’m! How come ? ” 

Approaching guardedly, he peered within. Nobody 
was there. Nothing seemed altered. The place not 
only looked empty—it felt empty. 

But before stepping over the threshold he shoved 
the door hard with one foot. It swung back and struck 
the wall, proving that nothing waited behind it. En¬ 
tering, he shot a glance into the bedroom where lay 
the forgotten dummy of burlap. For a second he 
stood rigid. Then he leaped into the room. 

The dummy still lay there. But it had been visited 
in the night. The visitor had left a memento of his 
call. Its handle jutted horizontally from the huddled 
sacks. 

Douglas grasped that handle and drew upward. 
From the burlap and the corn-husk mattress beneath 
slid a long blade. Grimly he inspected it. When he 
turned toward the outer room his face was flint. 

He had seen that murderous tool before. It yras 
the corn-hook of Nigger Nat Oaks. 



CHAPTER XVIII 


HUNTERS OF MEN 

Moving rapidly about, Douglas inspected his real 
bedroom and the spidery attic, finding his bough-tip 
couch undisturbed and the upper room empty. Back 
in the main room, he glowered anew at the bayonet¬ 
like blade which had been driven with such venomous 
force into what seemed to be a sleeping man. 

“ This cooks your goose, Nat Oaks! ” he growled, 
“ You’ve let yourself in for the worst mauling you 
ever got in your low-down life. Just as soon as you 
and I meet up again—and we’ll meet just as quick as 
I can find you! ” 

He strode to the door. But there he slowed, stayed 
by the reflection that Nigger Nat was not likely to be 
at home now and that he did not know where else to 
look. “ Better build a fire, eat, and dry out,” whis¬ 
pered Common Sense. So he slammed the door shut 
and returned to the cold stove. 

With the kindlings in position, he reached to the 
little shelf above him for a dry match—and knocked 
the match-box to the floor. Stooping to pick up the 
little igniters, he saw under the stove a scrap of paper. 
Mechanically he lifted it, glanced at it, saw only a 
blank space; folded it once, touched a match to it, and 
held it under the grate to start the fire. It blazed out 
bravely, the light of its own flame shining through it. 

Suddenly he snatched it back and killed its blaze 

195 


196 


CAT-O^-MOUNTAm 


under a wet sole. The light had revealed writing in¬ 
side the little sheet. 

Straightening out the charred, muddy remnant, he 
read: 

‘‘—akes dont Sleep hear to Nite.” 

Minutes passed while he squatted there, his whole 
mind concentrated on that belated message. Then he 
turned, inspected the floor, looked back at the stove, 
and nodded. 

“ Somebody slid this under the door yesterday after 
I left,” he deduced. “ When the door opened later on, 
the wind blew it here, wrong side up. Now who left 
it? Not Lou Brackett—not Marry or her mother— 
they don't know a thing about this. Uncle Eb ? 
Steve? Not likely that they’d know what was to 
happen. And it surely wasn’t either of those man- 
hunters. H’m! Some one of these silent Trapsmen 
who likes me, maybe. Well, my unknown friend. I’m 
obliged to you. Call again some time.” 

Again he studied the writing, the spelling, the paper 
—cheap wrapping, wrinkled and soiled. 

“ You haven’t much education and you write like a 
coal-heaver, but your heart’s true blue,” he added, 
folding the blackened tatter and pocketing it. “ I’d 
surely like to know who you are. But if you’re as 
close-mouthed as everybody else around here you’d 
never admit that you wrote this, anyway. Well, let’s 
start this fire.” 

Soon a hot fire was roaring up-chimney, coffee was 
coming to a boil, and he was arraying himself in the 
few dry articles of clothing he could find, while the 


HUNTERS OF MEN 


197. 


>vet garments and boots encircled the stove. After a 
rough-and-ready breakfast he hugged the stove him¬ 
self, smoking and thinking. 

Nat Oaks was a clumsy murderer indeed to leave 
his weapon behind. Perhaps the ha’nt had scared him 
—the open door indicated a sudden bolt from the 
place. For that matter, it was strange that he had 
ever dared to enter this house of fear at night. He 
must have been full of Dutch courage ” at the time. 

But there was Snake Sanders, too. Snake had been 
with Nat when he left home yesterday afternoon. He 
had returned to his own den late at night. And he 
was a creature who always worked stealthily, snakily, 
using others as his tools. In avenging his real or 
fancied grudge against the Bumps he had used Steve 
as his scapegoat. In trying to rid the neighborhood of 
the “ detective and gain possession of the stranger's 
belongings he had employed a deadly reptile. Now 
he and Nigger Nat had been much together of late— 
and he had “ some kind of a hold " on Nat. So Marion 
had said. It was fair to suspect, then, that he had 
been the instigator of this murderous attempt last 
night. Yes, very fair. Almost a foregone conclusion. 

Yet there was no actual proof of Snake's hand in 
this. For that matter, the proof against Nat himself 
was purely circumstantial. Another hand might have 
wielded this corn-hook. It was even possible that the 
corn-hook itself was not Nat's, though it looked the 
same. Corn-hooks probably were much alike. True, 
this one had a whitish gouge on the handle near the 
blade, and the same sort of mark had been noticeable 


198 


CAT-O’-MOUNTAIN 


at the same spot when Nat had poised it for attack 
that day in his yard. But still- 

** First thing Ill do, Nigger Nat, will be to find out 
whether this hook is yours,” declared the man by the 
stove. ‘'If it is, the next thing is to get hold of you. 
Then I'll hammer the truth out of you.” 

In pursuance of this program, he stoked up the fire 
and hastened the drying of the necessary articles of 
outdoor gear. When at length his personal outfit 
was again serviceable he went forth into the raw day. 

But he did not start away at once. Memory per¬ 
sisted in reminding him of Uncle Eb's account of the 
open door and of what he had found in the woods be¬ 
hind the house. He rubbed his chin, then turned and 
stalked toward those woods. 

In under the funereal trees he passed, scrutinizing 
the vague dark things here and there among the trunks, 
finding them to be only rotting fragments of old logs, 
half-buried Juts of stone, or lumps of forest mould. 
No sound came to him but the tiny impacts of falling 
leaves and the watery squash of his own boots on the 
soaked soil Dreary and dismal stood the forest, tell¬ 
ing him nothing of what had taken place last night. 
His only reward for his wandering there was a renewal 
of his wetness. 

Swinging back, he worked by the driest route to¬ 
ward the road, thinking only of settling the matter of 
the ownership of the corn-hook. And now that he 
sought nothing, he found something: a grim reminder 
of what had come about within these shades on an¬ 
other night. 



HUNTERS OF MEN 


199 


Under a hemlock was a sinister low mound. At one 
end stood a short pine board. On the board he de¬ 
ciphered scrawling letters shallowly cut with a jack¬ 
knife. 

JAKE 

DALTON 

Though he had repeatedly visited these woods be¬ 
fore, seeking fuel, he never had stumbled on this spot. 
Now he stood gazing thoughtfully down, hearing again 
Uncle EUs words: 

“ What he was runnin’ away from—^what had got 
holt of him before he run—^nobody knows. Nobody 
but Jake, an’ he can’t tell.” 

And last night another man had bolted from the 
same house, from the same room—whither?—why? 
Douglas felt a slight chill. With a sharp shake of the 
shoulders he lifted his head and right-faced. Out to 
the silent clearing he tramped, and straight up the 
road. 

On his way to the Oaks place he met nobody. The 
only tracks not blurred by rain on the sand were his 
own, made that morning. Entering the yard of Nigger 
Nat, he slowed down, sharply scanning the windows. 
No face showed there. 

‘‘ Hey! Hullo I ” he called. 

After a pause the door opened. Marion’s head came 
out. 

“ Hullo yourself! What you want ? Seen pop any¬ 
wheres ? ” 

“No. He hasn’t come home yet ? ” 


200 


CAT-O’-MOUNTAIN 


If he had I wouldn’t be askin’, would I? ” 

“ Probably not. Well, I wonder if I can borrow his 
corn-hook awhile.” 

“ Corn-hook ? Why—yes, I guess so. He wouldn’t 

like it much, but- Mom, Mister Hampton wants 

pop’s corn-hook awhile. All right? Wait a minute 
and I’ll git it.” 

She withdrew, leaving the door partly open. Pres¬ 
ently her voice floated to him from somewhere at the 
rear. 

“’Tain’t here! Mom, you been usin’ it? Well, 
’tain’t here. What’s ’come of it, I wonder?” 

Hammerless Hampton’s face tightened. To the door 
he passed, drawing from under his coat the tool which, 
despite its clumsiness, he had managed to conceal. 

“ Maybe this is it,” he called. Feet padded inside, 
and both the girl and her mother appeared. 

“ Sakes alive! That’s it, now!” ejaculated the 
woman. ‘‘ It’s hisn—got the two nicks into the edge 
that he never ground outen it, an’ there’s the place 
where one o’ the dawgs bit onto it.” She pointed to 
dull dents on the handle. “ How come ye by it ? ” she 
added suspiciously. “ What ye askin’ for it for, when 
ye got it already ? ” 

“ Just wanted to make sure it was his. I found it 
down the road a piece—in some corn-husks.” He 
watched her keenly. Her visage showed only blank 
wonderment. The girl, too, looked mystified, but she 
was probing his grim face with sharp eyes. 

*‘An’—^ye didn’t see nawthin’ o’ Nat?” 

** Not a thing. But you can tell him, when he gets 



HUNTERS OF MEN 201 

home, that I want to see him, and the best thing he can 
do is to wait for me/' 

Without another word or look he swung away, leav¬ 
ing them staring after him in misgiving. On up the 
road he journeyed, turning off at the path leading to 
the lair of Snake Sanders. 

The crawling mists had long since left the slopes, 
and when he emerged again into the Sanders field the 
shack was visible in all its raw nakedness. Smoke 
still curled from its shiftless chimney, but the only 
sign of life outside was a lonesome speckled hen 
pecking disconsolately at the bare dirt. Watching the 
windows, he marched up to the door and gave it a 
resounding kick. Then he jumped to one side. 

A chair fell over within, followed by hurried steps. 

** Who's ther' ? " shrilled a sharp voice. 

Open up! " he snapped, warily sweeping the front 
of the place, from corner to corner. I want Snake! " 

More steps. The door swung slowly back. Lou 
Brackett's face appeared, drawn into a squinting knot. 

Send Snake out here! " he commanded. 

She eyed him, unspeaking, for a long minute. 
Gradually her face relaxed. She came forward and 
stood on the door-stone. Her right hand was gripping 
a heavy flatiron. 

“ Snake, he ain't here.” 

“ Where is he ? I want him.” 

“ I dunno wher' he's at. He went out 'while ago— 
never said one word to me after he got up, 'cept tellin' 
me to git more cawffee. What's pesterin' ye? Wha' 
for d'ye come a-kiekin' into the door-” 



202 


CAT-O’-MOUNTAIIf 


Nat Oaks here? ” 

Nat! No, mister, that yeller dawg ain’t! Him 
nor none o’ his tribe—now or no other time ! What 


“ All right. Good-bye.” 

Leaving her open-mouthed, he circuited the house, 
looking in at every window, finding that she spoke 
truthfully: neither Sanders nor Oaks was there. She 
still stood on the steps, gaping after him, when he 
went back across the opening and disappeared down¬ 
hill among the trees. 

At the edge of the sandy road below, he paused, 
undecided what to do next. Had he been in almost 
any other place and seeking a man, he would have 
visited other men and asked questions. But here in 
the tight-mouthed Traps, what was the use? Still, he 
felt a strong distaste for returning and idling out the 
dismal day in his dreary abode. Half consciously he 
turned toward Uncle Eb’s home. 

I’ll go up and smoke a pipe with the old man, 
anyhow,” he decided aloud. 

Smoke it here if you want,” a voice answered. 

The voice came from beside a tree not ten feet away. 
Startled, he looked into the face of Ward, man- 
hunter. 

"‘Caught you flat-footed, huh?” Ward went on. 

Bill’s behind you, if that’s what you’re lookin’ for.” 

True enough, a few feet back from the other side of 
the path, the morose face of Bill showed beside another 
tree. 

Well! You fellows are getting good I ” Douglas 



HUNTERS OF MEN 203 

congratulated them. “ Regular Indian stuff. You’d 
have had me cold if you’d wanted me.” 

“ Sure.” Ward nodded carelessly. “But we don’t 
want you—not yet” 

“ Not yet ? Meaning what ?' 

“ Oh, we ain’t got anything on you—^yet. When we 
do we’ll nail you. Right now we got other work.” 

“ Thanks! Mighty nice of you to tell me. How 
are you making out ? ” 

“ Bum luck, so far,” was the frank admission. “ But 
we’ll git what we’re after. You could help us if you 
would, but it’s no good askin’ you.” 

Douglas grinned jauntily. Then he grew sober. 
There was something about the patient, straightfor¬ 
ward, quiet-spoken Ward that appealed strongly to 
him, just as there was a coarseness about “ Brooklyn 
Bill ” that aroused his reckless antagonism. Too, he 
himself was now a man-hunter on his own account. 
With Bill silent behind him and Ward’s steady eyes 
before him, he felt a sudden swerve from the Traps 
current in which he had been drifting. Weighing his 
words, he spoke out. 

“ See here. Ward. You haven’t told me who your 
man is, and I’m not asking. Maybe I know some¬ 
thing about the case, maybe I don’t. But let’s suppose 
a case. 

“ Suppose you’re looking for a fellow—only a young 
lad—who got sent up for arson and a few other things 
like that. Suppose I have reason to believe that the 
young fellow never did what he was sent up for; that 
he has served years for a crime he never committed; 


204 


CAT-O^-MOUI^TAIII 


that he was ‘ framed/ Would you blame me for not 
wanting to help send him back to a good many more 
years of the same?’' 

Ward’s eyes widened a trifle. 

“No, I wouldn’t. I’d feel sorry for him myself. 
But * framed ’ ? How? ” 

“ Used as a goat by an older man. Filled up with 
liquor and left to take the blame for burning a house 
and shooting people, while the man who really did it 
sneaked back up here and laughed at you fellows. 
That could easily be done.” 

A pause, while Ward watched him steadily. 

“ Sure, it could be done. But to git the kid clear it 
would have to be proved. Who’s the man ? ” 

Douglas glanced behind him—up Snake Sanders’ 
road. The movement was involuntary, prompted by 
an instinct to make sure that nobody else was lurking 
and listening. But Ward’s shrewd eyes narrowed, 
and he nodded as if in complete understanding. 

“ I’m not saying,” Douglas replied, facing him again. 
“ We’re just supposing, of course. But in that case, 
you couldn’t expect much help from me, even if I 
knew where the youngster was. As a matter of fact— 
if you are looking for such a fellow—I don’t know 
where he is. But, speaking of goats, here’s something 
that’s not * supposing’ at all: While I was away last 
night somebody entered my house and rammed a foot 
and a half of cold steel into a dummy I’d left in my 
bed. And I’m pretty sure that the mind back of that 
stab—though maybe not the hand that did the stab- 


HUNTERS OF MEN 205 

bing—was the same one that framed up that ‘ sup¬ 
posed ’ boy we’re talking about.” 

Another pause. 

Uh-huh. And you’ve been up here to see about 
it, and your man wasn’t home. Well, we’re waitin’ 
for that same gentleman; been wantin’ to see him for 
quite awhile, but he’s a slippery cuss. When we do 
git hold of him—we’ve got a few questions to ask him. 
Glad you spoke that little piece of yours, Hampton. 
We’ll keep it in mind.” 

“ All right. If I see him before you do he may get 
mussed up considerably, so you’d better grab him soon. 
So long.” 

“ Wait a minute. Got any idea who swung that 
steel on the dummy—if it wasn’t the same gent?” 

‘‘ Oh, yes. But that’s my business. So long.” 

“ So long. Watch yourself.” 

Douglas tramped away. Ward and Bill looked at 
each other, slid back behind their trees, and resumed 
their silent waiting. 


CHAPTER XIX 


THE SUN BREAKS THROUGH 

Three days of raw chill, leaden cloud, and numbing 
wind rolled past No more rain fell, but, except by 
fitful gleams, no sun shone. Through each gray day 
the dying leaves fluttered limply down, carpeting the 
damp ground thicker and thicker with yellow and 
crimson and brown. Through each black night a few 
hardy survivors of the former myriad of katydids 
quacked despairingly, and here and there a cricket 
sounded a mournful call to comrades which no longer 
answered him. Bleak November was drawing near. 

In those gray days Hammerless Hampton ranged 
the roads, the fields, and the forest, implacably hunting 
the man or men who had struck in the dark at the lay 
figure representing himself. Time and again he visited 
the Oaks house and the Sanders shack. But never 
did he find his quarry there. Time and again he was 
asked, with suspicion verging on anger, why he kept 
“ a-pesterin’ round.” But he never told. 

The manner of both Nigger Nat’s woman and Snake 
Sanders’ woman became sullenly hostile. Yet, though 
their attitude toward him was basically the same, there 
was a difference. In the shrewish face and the snap¬ 
pish answers of the former was revealed worriment 

206 


THE SUN BREAKS THROUGH 207. 


for the missing man. In the lowering countenance and 
the dogged replies of the latter was clumsy untruth. 
The man who studied them both knew that Snake, 
though always absent when he came, was present 
at certain other times; while Nat had never come 
home. 

Of Marion he saw little. When he did see her it 
was at her own door, and few words passed between 
them. He knew, though, that her active brain was 
surmising more or less accurately why he was hunting 
her father, and in her sober face he saw grave con¬ 
cern. But the rankling irritation of the other two 
women was never visible in her voice or manner. 
Whether her sympathies were with him or with her 
own kin he did not know. 

He did not confine his questioning, however, to these 
three. Though he felt it to be useless—and, indeed, 
found it so—to ask any of the clansmen for informa¬ 
tion regarding the two whom he sought, he quizzed 
every man he met. The only result was to cause keen 
interest in his movements and to spread throughout 
the mountain bowl the word that he was ‘‘ a-huntin' 
Nat an’ Snake with blood into his eye.” 

Even Uncle Eb gave him no aid. But this time it 
was not clannishness nor habitual taciturnity regarding 
his neighbors that made fruitless the younger man’s 
call on him. He really knew nothing of either of the 
rascally pair. 

“ Nor I don’t want to,” he added bluntly. " If 
ther’s anybody into the world I don’t want to know 
nawthin’ ’bout, it’s them fellers. No, I take that back. 


208 


CAT-O’-MOUIITAIl^ 


now I think onto it. Ther's one thing I’d like awful 
well to know ’bout ’em—that they was both dead. But 
that’s too good to come true.” 

The old man was standing in his doorway at the 
time, and his manner was even more jerky than usual. 
Douglas, outside, was conscious of the frank scrutiny 
of two women at a near-by window—Uncle Eb’s wife 
and spinster daughter, both intelligent-looking but de¬ 
cidedly plain of feature. Uncle Eb, too, seemed 
aware of listening ears, for he left his stoop and 
walked to the road, out of hearing. He asked no 
question, but his move was an obvious invitation to 
tell why Nat and Snake were wanted. And, briefly, 
Douglas did. 

“ The varmints! ” Eb muttered fiercely. “ The 
murderin’ snakes! They’d oughter be shot! Only for 
ye bein’ away they’d got ye. They’re a-layin’ low now 
’cause they know ye’re a-trackin’ ’em. By mighty, boy, 
ye must have a good angel a-watchin’ out for ye, 
sendin’ ye out that day an’ all! Ye’d oughter change 
yer bed now—mebbe change yer house too. I ain’t 
soop’stitious, but ther’ ain’t no good luck into that 
house o’ Jake’s.” 

Douglas wavered, half minded to tell him of his 
previous change in sleeping quarters and of the mys¬ 
terious missive of warning. But he held his tongue. 
Such disclosures would do no good. Instead, he 
shifted the subject. 

Maybe so, but I’m not moving out yet. By the 
way, I saw those two detectives the other day. They 
say they’ll get what they’re after.” 


TEE SUN BREAKS THROUGH 209 

Uncle Eb scowled. After a glance around he whis¬ 
pered : 

“ Son, I’m right worried. This is turrible weather 
for that boy to lay up into the rocks. He ain’t tough 
now—he was into the pen three year, ye know, an’ 
that weakens a feller—specially us hill fellers that’s 
used to lots o’ air. I dasn’t bring him back down here 
—I dasn’t go nigh him—for fear them detectives’ll 
git to him; they been round here two-three times, 
a-watchin’ an’ a-layin’ low. But I wisht he could git 
under cover some’rs. I hear he’s got a misery onto 
his chest already.” 

The younger man frowned in concern. Comfort¬ 
ably clad though he was, he felt the raw bite of the 
air; his ungloved fingers, in fact, were partly numbed. 
And Steve, cowering among those clammy bowlders, 
unable to risk a fire—why, the boy was barefoot! 

” D’ye s’pose, now, ye could toll them fellers out o’ 
the Traps for good?” Eb suggested hopefully. 
fooled ’em deef, dumb an’ blind that time they was 
right onto his back. Mebbe ye could-” 

He paused. Douglas reluctantly shook his head. 

“ Afraid not. They know now that I’m on Steve’s 
side. It wouldn’t work. But—I’ll see if I can think 
of something.” 

Dubious as the answer was, Eb’s face showed some 
relief. 

Do that, son! Think o’ sumpthin’—anythin’—an’ 
then go do it. I been a-thinkin’ till I’m all jumpy like, 
an’ it don’t git me nowheres. Mebbe I’d oughter let 
him shift for himself, seein’ he ain’t no relation o’' 



210 


CAT-O^-MOUNTAIN 


mine, but I can’t keep my mind offen the boy. He 
was borned unlucky, ye might say, an’ he never had 
much of a chance, an’—I’m right sorry for him.” 

Born unlucky ? How do you mean ? ” 

Uncle Eb glanced sidewise at him; pulled at one end 
of his walrus mustache; spat loudly, looked at his 
windows, and spoke—^but did not answer. 

” I got to be gittin’ in. I’m a-gittin’ cold. Uh—do 
what ye can for the pore feller. G’by.” 

Hastily he lumbered houseward. Douglas stared, 
laughed shortly at the awkward rebuff, and sauntered 
away, unoffended. He knew the old man’s tongue had 
been clutched by the hand of habit—the habit of tell¬ 
ing no tales about others; and, in a way, he honored 
the old fellow for it. What mattered Steve’s birth, 
anyway? The real crux was the problem of his im¬ 
mediate future. 

All the way back to his abiding-place that problem 
bothered him. Night was not far off now, and the 
cold was increasing. Looking up at the chill gray 
cliffs of Dickie Barre as he passed along the road, he 
shivered. What a cheerless refuge for a half-clad 
boy! Skulking there alone in a black hole night after 
night, numbly waiting day after day, subsisting on 
cold food smuggled to him by stealth, dreading every 
sound, with a growing “ misery onto his chest ”—^he 
was in a worse prison than the one from which he had 
escaped. Beside him, its grisly fingers perhaps already 
touching his lungs, lurked the dread spectre of the 
hills—Pneumonia. And he, Hampton, though he lived 
in a haunted house^ had shelter and stove and warmth 


THE SUN BREAKS THROUGH 211 

—and more room than he needed. All at once he 
nodded sharply. He knew what he would do. 

Before night set in he worked a little while at his 
back door, which opened hard and creaked loudly. 
With his camp-ax he trimmed its edges, and with gun- 
oil he lubricated the rusty hinges, until it could swing 
easily and silently. After barring it he turned to the 
window of his sleeping-room, which hitherto had been 
wedged so that it would admit fresh air but nothing 
else. On this also he labored for a time. When it 
would rise with smooth speed he locked it with a short 
stake and turned his attention to preparing supper. 

“ Maybe to-morrow night we’ll have company,” he 
informed the emptiness. “ Maybe.” 

An hour later he was asleep on his aromatic couch, 
and the whole house was given up to darkness and 
silence. 

As the black hours wore on, the boards above his 
head dully gave notice that the ha’nt was prowling 
back and forth on its softly thumping bare heels. 
Perhaps his subconscious self knew of the movement, 
but it did not arouse his sleeping senses—it was only 
the usual nightly occurrence. Out in the main room 
beyond his closed door, too, something moved about: 
a silent, hideous, unhuman thing which paused awhile 
beside the wooden barrier, then glided elsewhere; a 
thing which opened no doors or windows, which 
neither entered the house nor left it, but which pres¬ 
ently was gone. Of this, too, he knew nothing. The 
weird sough of the sepulchral pines behind the house, 
the proximity of the mound holding all that was left 


212 


CAT-O^-MOUIJTAIl^ 


of the man who had been done to death here, the steel- 
slashed rent in the corn-husk mattress beyond the wall 
—none of these things troubled him. Tranquilly he 
slept until morning light smote softly on his lids and 
woke him to a new day. 

Sim and warmth flooded the Traps when, after 
breakfast, he emerged into the open. After the gray¬ 
ness and the numbness of the past few days, the change 
was magical. But for the thinly clad branches above 
and the sodden wind-blown leaves below, it would have 
seemed mid-August instead of late October. In the 
hot air flies buzzed, bees hummed, and a resounding 
chorus throbbed from crickets and katydids defiantly 
informing the world that they were not yet dead. And 
from all sides drifted the damp fragrance of forest 
mould and of grass-ground drying in the heat. 

But, as a wandering breeze floated from the region 
of a bush-bound little brook beyond the road, it 
bore into the pleasant aroma of plant life a vague 
taint 

Douglas, inhaling the freshness of the morning, half 
sensed that slight odor and glanced around. But then 
the breeze died and he forgot it. Drawing another 
great limgful of air, he struck off up the road toward 
the Oaks place. 

Before he reached it the sound of chopping came to 
him. As he entered the yard he found a figure slug¬ 
ging away at a chopping-block with an ax which 
seemed dull. It wore a man’s hat, but it also wore a 
dress. The hat fell off as he approached, and the sun 
glowed red in the tumbled hair suddenly revealed. 


THE SUN BREAKS THROUGH 213 


At the sound of his step the girl wheeled sharply and^ 
panting and flushed, looked at him. 

“No, he ain’t home,” she said before he could 
speak. “You can run right ’long up to Lou’s.” 

She turned from him, picked up another stick of 
fire-wood, swung the ax dexterously, and split the 
fagot clean. Something about her words and manner 
gave him a sudden glimpse of her side of that pride- 
wall which had stood between them: the side which 
he had supposed to bear the face of Steve, but which 
now seemed to hold something else. He stepped for¬ 
ward and closed one hand over the ax-helve. 

“ Look here, Marion,” he said quietly, “ I don’t like 
that.” 

“ ’Tain’t much to me what you like,” she retorted, 
though with little heat. “ Jest travel ’long.” 

“ When I’m ready.” He kept his grip on the handle. 
“ But let’s settle this now. You’ve been acting offish 
for quite awhile—ever since the day we talked about 
art and—and so on, up the brook. I’ve been too bull¬ 
headed to ask you why. But I’m asking you now, 
straight and square; and asking you, too, why you 
keep intimating that Lou is a particular friend of mine. 
Now speak up, man to man.” 

With steady directness she looked up at him. Wide 
gray eye and clear blue eye searched each other to the 
depths. And then, man to man, straight from the 
shoulder, she spoke out. 

“ I heard ’bout you huggin’ her under the bridge. 
’Tain’t any of my business, only ——” 

“ What’s that ? Hugging? ” 



214 


CAT-O’-MOUNTAIN 


Yes, sir, huggin\ And pretty hard, too. And 
that wasn’t much more’n an hour after—after ”—she 
flushed crimson—“after you—made me—fight to git 
my picture. The only difference it makes to me is 
this: you couldn’t have much respect for yourself to 
do it, or for me either. ’Course, I’m only Nigger 
Nat’s girl, and folks ain’t got much respect for him or 
anybody of his, but—^but that’s different.” 

“ I should think so! ” he agreed crisply. “ Those 
dirty little gossips who spied us made a fine tale of it, 
didn’t they! Well, now, here’s the exact truth.” 

And the exact truth of that incident he gave her. 
He omitted only to tell of the woman’s clumsy at¬ 
tempt to lure him and of her appeal for silver from 
the lost mine; and these parts he left out only because 
of innate chivalry toward even such drab womanhood 
as Lou’s. 

“ So that’s all there is to it,” he concluded. “ I 
tried to help her out but only got her into a worse 
mess, thanks to lying tongues. Now you can believe 
me or those kids, just as you like.” 

A little longer the gray eyes held his. Then they 
fell, and on her lips dawned the first smile he had seen 
there in many a long day. 

“ I’m—I’m glad you come visitin’ this mornin’, even 
if you are mad at my pop,” she said softly. “ But 
have we both got to keep holdin’ this ax ? ” 

“ No,” he smiled. “ I can hold it alone. Let go.” 
She obeyed. 

“Now I didn’t come hunting your pop to-day,” he 
went on, “ although I’m on the lookout for him all the 


THE SUN BREAKS THROUGH 215 


time, and- Tell me, do you care much about your 

pop ? 

“ Well, he’s the onliest pop I’ve got,” she naively 
reminded him. ‘‘But I don’t care much about him. 
He’s awful ornery.” 

“ Quite right. He’s all of that. But we’ll forget 
him for now. I came over to-day to ask you to take 
me to—a friend of ours.” She looked up quickly. 
“ Uncle Eb tells me he’s sick, and I want to see him. 
Will you guide me ? ” 

Dubiously she looked all about. Her whispered 
reply was hardly audible. 

“ We’ve got to go careful. The detective fellers, 
they’re a-watchin’ all round—mebbe they’re up into 
some of these trees right now. But—can you help 
him some way ? ” 

“ I’m going to try.” 

“ All right, we’ll go. Cut me a little more wood 
while I take this into the house. Mom, she’s abed yet; 
she don’t feel good this mornin’. But she ain’t real 
sick. We’ll go pretty quick.” 

With another smile at him she gathered up wood 
and hastened in. And Hammerless Hampton set his 
gun against the wall and looked around, marveling at 
the brightness of the sun and the sweetness of the air 
and the cheeriness of the birds. Even the harsh cries 
of the bluejays in the woods sounded musical. In all 
the Traps at that moment he could perceive not one 
discordant note of sound or color. Indeed, something 
disagreeable seemed magically to have vanished from 
the world, and it was good to be alive. 



216 


cat-o^-mou:ntain 


And something had vanished: something nebulous, 
intangible, yet real and rock-hard: the two-sided wall 
of Pride. And Douglas, feeling that all was well with 
the universe, began lustily swinging the ax in the 
service of the girl who was glad he had come visiting. 


CHAPTER XX 


LIBERTY OR DEATH 

Along a dim, winding trail, through baffling under¬ 
growth and around half-buried blocks of stone and 
over prostrate tree-trimks, a man and a maid passed 
in silence. Under foot the damp leaves, not yet dried 
by sun or wind, gave out no betraying crackle. The 
pair spoke no word, made hardly a rustle as they 
touched bare stems or twigs. They seemed bound on 
an all-day hunting trip, for the man carried a shotgun, 
and the girl a little apron knotted into a bag, contain¬ 
ing food. Yet it was the girl who led the way. 

Upward, ever upward they climbed on a slope whose 
pitch grew more and more steep. At length they 
paused at the edge of a gigantic mass of bowlders, 
above which towered stark crags split by a yard-wide 
fissure. 

'' We go up into that crack, then 'long the top of the 
ledge to the left, then down again," Marion breathed. 

“ Why ? " he remonstrated. “ Why not work along 
here without going up and down ? " 

“ You ain't much of a detective if you can't guess 
that," she laughed. ‘'Up on top we can watch back 
and see if we're follered. Down here we can't." 

“ Quite right," he conceded. “ You're a better 
dodger than I am. A better climber, too, probably. 
These boots don't grip bare rock very well." 

217 


218 


CAT-O’-MOUNTAIN 


“ Go ’long, and go slow. Don’t bump and scrape. 
We’ve got all day.” 

After surveying the jumble above, he began working 
up into it, moving with caution but with creditable 
speed. For a time he was so engrossed with the toil 
of quietly moving himself, his damp-soled boots, and 
his gun, that he gave no attention to her. When at 
length he paused at the foot of the fissure he looked 
back—and found her close at his heels. 

“ You’re awful slow and stiff,” she taunted, as if 
she had not just warned him to proceed cautiously. 

I’ll go ’long up and wait. G’by.” 

And up she went with a flash of tanned ankles and 
a swirl of swaying skirt, her toes gripping with un¬ 
erring surety at the soil slanting down within the 
crevice, her lithe young body swinging with easy 
grace, her hair flaming like an upshooting meteor. 
At the top she swung and laughed once more with the 
exhilaration of strenuous activity. Then she moved 
from sight. 

“ Whew! ” breathed Douglas, contemplating the 
slope. “ Our catamount can climb! Imagine a 
corseted, high-heeled city girl doing that. Imagine me 
doing that! If I don’t come flopping back down here 
end-over-end I’ll be lucky. Well, here goes.” 

Digging in his toes, he started. For a few feet all 
went well. Then his soles began to slip, and only a 
clutch with his free hand stopped his slide. By the 
time he was half-way up he was clambering crabwise, 
forcing in his heels. And when he neared the top he 
was using every support he had—feet, hands, and gun- 


LIBERTY OR DEATH 


219 


butt. However, he made the ascent without a fall; 
and, thanks to his recent days of roving, without much 
loss of wind. 

Marion had disappeared, but the little bundle of 
food lay beside the cleft. Presently she came creeping 
back on hands and knees from the outer brink and 
stood erect. 

“ Well, Mister Slowpoke, you got here before noon 
after all,” she gibed. “ I 'most went to sleep waitin’, 
the sun’s so hot out yender. There ain’t any detectives 
into sight, so when you git rested we can travel ’long.” 

“ Rested ? I’m not so feeble as you think,” he 
smiled. “ And just remember that I have to lift about 
seventy or eighty more pounds of bone and meat at 
every step than you do. You’re only a flyweight. Bet 
I can lift you with one arm.” 

“ Bet you can’t! ” she flashed. 

Forthwith he laid down his gun and swept her off 
her feet. Steadying her with the right hand lightly 
laid against her shoulders, he raised her on his rigid 
left forearm. She wriggled, slipped, and instinctively 
seized him around the neck. Both his arms suddenly 
tightened around her. Her face came close to his. 

The next instant a firm little hand set itself against 
his chin. Though his grip still held her, her face now 
was more than a foot away. The slender arm between 
them was like a steel bar. 

“ Let go! ” she commanded. 

‘‘What’s the matter? Afraid I’ll kiss you?” His 
eyes were dancing recklessly. “ Or are you afraid I 
won’t ? ” 


220 


CAT-O’-MOUI^TAIN 


“Afraid—^you—won’t? That’s’bout’nough! You 
ain’t under a bridge now] ” 

The twit stung. His face darkened. He set her 
down abruptly, picked up his gun, moved away toward 
the left. 

“ I—I didn’t mean that,” she quickly added. “ I 
dunno why I said it—^it jest come, like. But—remem¬ 
ber, we come up here to see somebody.” 

He nodded sombrely and strode on. Confound it! 
Why did these hill girls take things so seriously ? He 
hadn’t meant to kiss her anyhow. Or had he? He 
didn’t know; maybe, in that momentary devil-may- 
care mood, he would have done it. And what if he 
had? There was nothing fatal about a careless kiss 
or so, all in fun. But then, there was Steve, of course. 
Yes, that was it. That fierce, vengeful, desperate boy 
—she was cleaving to him, one of her own people, 
and the kiss of any other man was not to be lightly 
taken. So be it. She was right enough, of course. 

Yet, in his unintrospective way, he felt a vague 
irritation over the eternal presence of Steve. If only 

the youth did not exist- He let the thought go no 

farther. He did. not consider what might be if Steve 
were removed. Neither did he recall that this girl’s 
blood was tainted by her parentage. He let the whole 
matter die, and instead put his mind on the lonely, 
sick boy himself, victim of Snake Sanders’ machina¬ 
tions and fugitive from the insensate monster which 
killed men’s souls—the Law. Sympathy for him again 
warmed his heart. He pressed on in his errand of 
aid. 



LIBERTY OR DEATH 221 

“ D’you shave every day ? ” sounded a small voice 
at his heels. 

'' Uh ? Shave ? ” He groped, bewildered by the 
sudden change of thought. “ Why—yes. Every 
morning after breakfast. Why?^^ 

Your chin's so smooth. It ain't all full of splinters 
like pop's. And your face always looks so clean. I 
never see any other man that kept his face clean every 
day. I—I kind of like it." 

The ingenuous statement made him laugh. 

“ Glad there's something about me that you like," he 
mocked. But to me it's not so much a matter of 
appearance as of comfort. I can't stand a mess of 
bristles on my face and throat. It's prickly. So I 
slice it off." 

They trudged on, following a faintly defined path 
well back from the brink, invisible to any eye which 
might look up from below. After awhile she said 
softly, as if talking to herself: “ Steve's gittin' awful 
whiskers onto his face." 

Remembering the bristly black beard he had noticed 
on the fugitive's unshaven face at their last meeting, 
he nodded carelessly. 

“ Of course. How can he shave ? " he reminded 
her. But maybe he can clean it off soon. We’ll 
see.” 

What you figgerin' to do ? ” 

“ Ask him to come down and hide in my house, 
where he'll be dry and warm." 

She gave a little gasp. 

“Why—why, he can't! With them detectives 


222 


CAT-0’-3I0UNTAIN 


pesterin^ round—if they should come he’d be caught 
into a reg’lar trap. And you’d git ’rested too.” 

“ Maybe. But it’s getting too cold for him to lie 

up here. To-day’s hot, but to-morrow- He’s got 

to move somewhere soon.” 

Soberly she studied him. 

” That’s so, but he won’t come, I don’t b’lieve. I 
tried to git him to come down and stay to our house, 
but he wouldn’t. He dasn’t trust pop. And them de¬ 
tectives, they watch everywheres. They come there 
one time and asked pop a lot of questions. I dunno 
what they asked him—I wasn’t round; but pop’s apt 
to say ’most anything or do ’most anything—depends 
on how drunk he is.” 

“ Steve’s wise not to go there, then. But it’s dif¬ 
ferent at my place.” 

No more was said. Marion looked often at him as 
they journeyed on, and her face was troubled. He 
kept his forward-ranging gaze on the vague path. 

After a time he found himself emerging at the 
brink. Here she resumed the lead. Down over a 
jagged confusion of leaning bowlders she picked a 
tortuous way, followed by the more slowly moving 
man. Presently they were under the cliff, amid thick 
brush, on steep but firm-soiled ground whence pro¬ 
truded a few deep-sunk blocks. She moved a rod or 
two to the left and paused. 

“ See anything? ” she questioned. 

He studied the surroundings and shook his head. In 
the blank face of the precipice showed no opening— 
not even a crack. The cliff, the ground, the brush. 



LIBERTY OR DEATH 


223 


the half dozen juts of gray stone—there was no sign 
of a hiding-place. True, there were two fair-sized 
bowlder-tops close together, with a small black hole 
between; but the hole must be only a cranny in the 
earth, like hundreds of others along the wall—a good 
place to break a leg, but not to hide in. He did not 
give it a second glance. 

Yet it was at this despised hole that she knelt. Into 
it her head vanished, and from it sounded her signal 
—a soft “ Hoo-hoo ” almost inaudible above ground. 
From somewhere down in the bowels of the tightly 
packed earth floated a faint sound in reply. Her head 
reappeared. 

“ ril go down first to tell him it’s all right,” she 
murmured. “ You wait ’bout two minutes or so, then 
come ’long. It’ll be tight squeezin’—you’re so wide 
acrost the shoulders—but you can git through.” 

She pushed the apron-package into the hole. Then 
she turned once more to him. 

“ This here is my little secret, that I’ve come to for 
years,” she told him. “ There ain’t anybody ever been 
into it but me—and Steve. The place Uncle Eb took 
Steve to wasn’t so good—it was too easy to find—so 
I brought him here.” 

With that she was gone into the gloomy opening. 

For a minute or two he waited, looking at the hole 
and picturing to himself a lonely, heart-sick little girl 
coming here year after year to forget the drunken 
coarseness of her father and the profane nagging of 
her mother. A disappointing place, this prosaic cavity; 
not at all the picturesque grotto his fancy had painted 


224 


CAT-O^'MOVI^TAIII 

when, in idle moments, his mind had reverted to her 
confession of a playhouse where she took refuge 
by her “ own self.” Yet somewhere within it must be 
a real cavern among the sunken rocks, where, forget¬ 
ful of the raw crudity of her life, she had lain many 
a time gazing star-eyed at the figments of her dreams. 
Did she ever, he wondered, dream of a Prince Charm¬ 
ing who should bear her over the hills and far away 
into a world of lights and laughter, music and per¬ 
fume? 

Perhaps her untutored imagination could not even 
vision such a world. Perhaps her soul, like her body, 
was hemmed in by the eternal rim of the rock bowl— 
that soul which yet groped vaguely upward with its 
unconscious artistry, its vision of dead men who shook 
the hills with their tramping, its effort to place on 
paper the beauty of the green pool in Coxing Kill. 
Perhaps Lou Bracketfs dictum was inexorably true: 
Them thafs horned into the Traps lives into the Traps 
and dies into the Traps. 

Recalling himself, he dropped to his knees, dubi¬ 
ously sized up the passage, sank prone, and began 
worming his way inward. 

Once inside, he found that it was not so black as it 
had looked. Somewhere ahead, light came faintly up 
from a lower level. The tunnel slanted at an easy 
grade and curved a little to the right. For the first 
few feet he found her surmise correct—it was a tight 
passage for him. But, after inching along in growing 
distaste for the squeezing discomfort of the hole, he 
found the rock walls veering aside and lifting above 


225 


LIBERTY OR DEATH, 

him. A’ few feet more, and he had room to rise to all 
fours. The dim light grew a shade stronger. He 
found his face hanging over a drop, belo\\c ^vhich was 
a steep, curving chute. 

Swinging his feet foremost, he went over and down, 
sliding a Httle but holding himself by hand-grips along 
the wall. He stopped on the level lip of another 
drop. 

Before him widened an oblong cavern, fairly well 
lighted by rifts in the stony walls and by another en¬ 
trance at its farther end—a sizable hole at the floor- 
level, evidently leading downward. It looked quite 
dry, except for a tiny trickle of water down one side; 
its floor was well carpeted with leaves, obviously 
brought in from above; and in the walls were ir¬ 
regular natural shelves, most of which held small 
treasures of childhood—a cracked cup or two, worn- 
out cooking utensils—such things as a little girl might 
have brought there to make it a real “ playhouse.” 
And some six feet away was the little girl herself— 
Marion—with her wild Steve. 

‘‘ H^are ye, Hamp,” the youth hoarsely greeted him 
—and clutched at his chest. For a second or two he 
set his teeth; then, throwing one sleeve across his 
mouth to muffle the sound, coughed repeatedly. When 
he lowered the arm his lips were drawn. Dumbly he 
rubbed his chest. 

“ Howdy, partner,” Douglas returned, surveying 
him keenly and noting his haggard face and hollow 
eyes. ‘‘ Sore inside ? ” 

** Got cold,” nodded Steve. Can't stop this 'ere 


226 


CAT-O’-MOUNTAIN 


cough a-rackin’. Can’t sleep good. An’ ther’s a 
misery onto my left lung. Lot o’ pains like red-hot 
needles. Got to breathe short. Cough nigh rips the 
lung outen me. Makes too much noise too. If them 
dicks hearn it-” 

He spoke in short whispers, his hand rubbing 
mechanically, as if it had done the same thing at fre¬ 
quent intervals for many hours. The man above re¬ 
garded him gravely. Though strong of lung himself, 
he knew what pleurisy was; knew, too, that there was 
such a thing as pleuropneumonia. The lad below 
looked to be rapidly heading into something of the 
kind. He certainly was not the healthy young fellow 
he had been that day in Uncle Eb’s barn. 

“ Head ache? Feel hot? ” Douglas quizzed. 

“ Yuh. Head’s like to split. I’m hot all over, like.” 

Another strangled cough, with its after-grimace of 
pain. Douglas looked below, found a couple of shelves 
forming natural steps, and descended. He laid a hand 
on Steve’s forehead. The hot skin seemed to burn 
him. 

H’m! I was afraid so,” he muttered. ‘‘ Fever, 
headache, pleural pains, cough. H’m! Well, Steve, 
now listen. You’re sick. If you stay here you’ll be 
sicker. Now my place is sort of lonesome, and no¬ 
body calls on me; and the woods are right handy to 
the back door, so you could make a quick getaway if 
you had to; and it’s dry and-” 

A determined shake of the head cut short his pre¬ 
amble. 

“ Marry told me,” the lad refused. “ I ain’t a-goin’. 




LIBERTY OR DEATH 


227 


Mebbe I’m sick, Mebbe I’ll die. But it’s all right. 
I’ll die by inches ’fore I’ll go wher’ I’ll git caught.” 

“ Don’t be a fool! What’s the good of-” 

Don’t say no more. I ain’t a-goin’. Ther’s things 
wuss’n me dyin’. Coin’ back to the pen’s one. Gittin’ 
my friends into trouble’s ’nother. I ain’t got but three 
friends into the world. Marry an’ you an’ Uncle Eb. 
I come awful nigh gittin’ two o’ ye into a mess t’other 
day. ' Them dicks’d make ye sweat blood if they 
knowed ye was a-helpin’ me. An’ I don’t danger ye 
no more.” 

He writhed with another cough. Amazed by the 
unexpected chivalry of the hill boy, Douglas stood 
dumb. Presently Steve went on with the same pain- 
clipped sentences. 

“ ’Sides, I can’t live into a house. Marry’ll tell ye 
that. I warn’t borned into a house. I was dropped 
into the woods like—like a wolf-pup. I can die like 
that same wolf: into the rocks or the trees. I ain’t 
a-dyin’ yet, anyways. An’ till I do die- 

“ I went to school a little. Not much. Couldn’t 
stand it ’less’n the winders was open. But I learnt 
readin’. I see a piece ’bout a feller that said ‘ Gimme 
liberty or gimme death.’ That’s me. I live free—if 
it’s into a hole. Mebbe I die into the same hole. But 
I die free—^not like a rat into a house-wall. Gimme 
liberty or-” 

A tearing spasm of muffled coughing ended his talk. 
When it had passed he slumped down against the side 
of the cavern, his brow knotted in agony, his hand 
rubbing feebly, but his gaunt jaw set like the rock 





228 


CAT-O’-MOUNTAIIf 


against which he leaned. And Douglas, after a mo¬ 
ment more of grave study, gave him up. He was not 
to have company in his haunted house after all. His 
toil last night on the rear door and the bedroom win¬ 
dow had come to naught. 

Yet the time was to come when, despite the flat 
refusal of the fugitive to leave his den, that smooth- 
sliding back window in Hampton's home was to serve 
Steve well. 


CHAPTER XXI 


THE HAND OF THE GHOST 

Douglas pushed off his hat and ran a hand through 
his hair, puzzling over what to do now. Despite 
Marion’s prediction, he had not seriously considered 
the possibility of an inflexible rejection of his offer, 
and now he was somewhat at a loss. 

Squatting beside Steve, he absently dug tip his 
empty pipe and puffed at it, thinking. Steve looked 
wistful, but said nothing. Marion, sitting on a little 
leaf-cushioned projection of stone, watched both of 
them unobserved. 

The contrast between the two male faces was strik¬ 
ing. Douglas, blond, strong, clean of skin and clear- 
cut of feature, thoughtfully serious, working out the 
problem of helping another: Steve, swarthy, wan, 
black-bristled, unkempt, grim-jawed, determined to 
follow his own course despite reason and sense; truly, 
they seemed as opposite as light and darkness, as blithe 
hope and sombre desperation. .Yet the dark face, per¬ 
haps, would strike more forcefully on vibrant heart¬ 
strings; for mingled with its resolution was an un¬ 
conscious pathos. To a sympathetic eye, too, the 
ragged, shapeless clothing of the younger man would 
have appealed more strongly than the well-fitting garb 
of the other. But Marion was not looking at the dress 

229 


230 


CAT-O’-MOUNTAIN 


of the pair. Silently, steadfastly, here in her dream- 
cavern she 'was studying faces—and men. 

“ Well,” Douglas said slowly, removing his pipe— 
and stopped. He saw the hollow eyes, eloquent with 
tobacco-hunger, follow the motion of the blackened 
briar. Wiping its stem on a sleeve, he passed it over. 
Steve grabbed it and began eagerly sucking in the 
strong incense of bygone smokes. The little touch of 
comradeship was not lost on the girl, nor was the next 
movement of the blond man. He produced a tobacco- 
tin, picked out a third of its contents, and handed the 
rest to Steve. 

“ Better not smoke it,” he suggested. “ The smoke 
will float outside. Chew it. I’ll have Uncle Eb get 
more for both of us. Now I won’t argue with you 
about moving. You say you won’t, and that ends it. 
But you’ve got to doctor up. You’ve got to bake that 
pain out of your lung, kill that cough, knock out the 
headache and fever, keep warm and dry. Take care 
of yourself. Remember you’re not so hardy as you 
were three years ago.” 

Steve nodded, grinding the pipe-stem between his 
teeth. 

“ Them three years would of kilt me, but I had to 
live to git Snake.” 

“ Uh-huh. Now I’ll go home and send up the best 
medicine I have. It isn’t much: mostly quinine. But 
you take it. To-night, when there isn’t much chance 
that anybody’ll be prowling up here, you make a fire, 
boil some water, bake your chest with hot cloths. 
Marion can fix you up a mustard plaster, too, and 


THE HAHD OF THE GHOST 231 


fetch it back with the medicine; you wrap it around '' 
that lung, and it ought to draw out the misery. I'll 
send you up some good wool socks, too. And you 
wear 'em! Now will you follow Old Doc Hampton’s 
orders ? " 

I’ll foller ’em, Hamp.” 

“ Good enough. Now I’ll go get that medicine." 
He arose and clapped on his hat. “ I won’t be back 
here myself unless I’m needed—the fewer that come 
here the better. But take care of yourself." 

Steve gripped the extended hand, his face softening. 

Much 'bliged, Hamp. An’ take care o’ yer own 
self. Snake’s a-fixin' to git ye some way, I bet ye. 
Cuss him, will I ever git to him ? " 

In the cavernous eyes, in the prediction of trouble 
from Snake, were a significance which Douglas was to 
remember later on, but which he hardly noticed now. 
He only answered the rebellious question. 

Not until you’re able to handle him. Right now 
you can’t even handle yourself." 

Steve’s mouth tightened in angry admission that he 
realized it. With a last long draw at the pipe he 
handed it back. 

I’ll handle him right rough 'fore long," he gritted. 

" G’by." 

With a nod and a smile Douglas followed Marion, 
who, still wordless, now was half out of sight in the 
lower entrance. Down they went, passing through a 
series of smaller caverns, twisting and crouching and 
dropping, until they came out into sunlight. Be¬ 
fore them, hardly a rod away, rose the face of the 


232 


CAT>0’-3I0UNTAIN 


cliff. Around were bowlders half as big as houses. 
Among these the girl led an irregular way—and they 
were under an overhanging crag, looking out across 
the Traps. 

Looking back, he decided that any one would have 
an extremely difficult time in finding Steve's covert 
unless guided to it. Once away from here, he doubted 
whether he himself could retrace his course. Marion’s 
dream-cave was as complete a hiding-place as could 
well be imagined: double entrances and exits, both al¬ 
most impossible of discovery, the upper one forming 
a natural flue for a night fire; well watered, with wood 
at hand for the taking, plenty of air and sufficient 
light; yes, it was almost ideal—until the snows should 
come. 

Go careful down here,” the girl's voice broke in 
on his reflections. It's pretty rough. Here's where 
I took a fall the night the catamount 'most got me.” 

Down again they went, over a steep talus; among 
more bowlders, and out at last on grassy, bushy soil; 
through undergrowth to a faint foot-track running 
north. Along this they trod for some time in silence. 

“If it's a fair question, what did Steve mean by 
saying he was bom like a wolf-pup?” he asked at 
length. 

“ It's so,” she said, half reluctantly. “ His—his 
folks wasn't married, and his pop went off and left his 
mom 'fore Steve was homed, and he never come back. 
His mom, she went kind of queer into the head about 
it. She was into the woods all the time, a-travelin' 
and a-whisperin', folks say. Steve was homed out- 


THE HAHD OF TEE GHOST 233 


doors, like he says. She died pretty soon, and so he 
hasn’t got any folks.” 

Another long silence. Now he knew what Uncle 
Eb meant by saying the boy had been born unlucky 
and never had had a chance. Poor, pitiful little 
tragedy of the hills! The girl deserted by her man 
just when she most needed his companionship and 
protection; the staring, whispering young mother-to-be 
wandering in the leafy solitudes; the new little life 
coming into the world as primitively as that of the 
first-bom son of mankind; the kindly old Mother 
Earth taking back into her great bosom one more of 
her daughters who had loved and lost—a tragedy ever 
new, yet old as the trust of women and the callousness 
of men. Poor little mother I Poor Steve! 

He might have asked more about the boy—how he 
had lived and grown—^but a glance at the girl told him 
she would say no more. In all his wanderings among 
the people of the Traps, this was the first time any one 
had told him anything about the past of another; and 
even now it probably was told only because Steve him¬ 
self had virtually given permission. He asked nothing 
further. It was she who now asked a question or two 
of her own. 

“ When you asked him to come down to your house 
had you forgot the ha’nt might git him ? ” 

‘‘By George, I did! Clean forgot that ha’nt of 
mine. Is that why he wouldn’t come ? ” 

“ No-o, I guess not. Not so much. But mebbe 
’twas one of the things he was thinkin’ about; he 
figgers a lot of things into his head that don’t come 


234 


CAT-0’-3I0UNTAIN 


outen his mouth. But tell me, jest what does that 
ha’nt do? The same kind of things all the time? 
Nobody else ever stayed there long ’nough to find out 
if the ha’nt worked reg’lar. You know him pretty 
well by now, I shouldn’t wonder.” 

“ Well, I don’t pay much attention to him. He—or 
it—scared me green in the face the first night, but he’s 
never done me any real harm, and I’ve never seen 
anything in a white sheet gibbering at me—nor any¬ 
thing else. But this is what I know about him.” And 
he described the muffled footfalls in attic and stair¬ 
way, the rustling and movement of the mattress, 
and the uncanny suggestion that something else was 
there. 

“ Ooh! ” She shuddered and looked nervously 
around. Then, banishing the visions conjured up by 
his words, she became practical. “ Did you ever think 
that mebbe the thing walkin’ round was a rat ? ” 

A rat? If he is. Mister Rat has feet as big as 
pillows. I thought of it, yes. But it’s queer—I’ve 
never heard a rat or a mouse scamper or gnaw in that 
house. You’d think there would be plenty of them, 
but I’ve never seen nor heard a sign. And I’m posi¬ 
tive it was no rat that got into bed with me.” 

“ M-h’m. Well, I wonder, now—do you want a cat? 
We’ve got four of ’em, always pesterin’ round for 
somethin’ to eat. They’re Spit and Spat and Fit and 
Fat—I named ’em all my own self. Spit and Spat 
are ugly and they make noises like their names. Fit 
has fits and Fat’s fat. I’ll give you Spit if you want 
him. He’s quick as lightnin’ and an awful good ratter. 


THE HAHD OF THE GHOST 235 


and he’ll be company for you, too. Leave that attic 
door open and see what he’ll do. Want to ? ” 

“ All right,” he chuckled. But if that heavy-footed 
ha’nt steps on Spit’s tail and Spit raises the roof with 
a gosh-awful yowl when I’m asleep—there won’t be 
any house left. I’ll go head-first through the wall and 
knock down the whole layout.” 

She burst into a merry laugh, in which he joined. 
Quickly she suppressed it, however, looking around 
once more—not for a night-walking phantom this time, 
but for something which prowled as stealthily by day, 
ranging the whole countryside: the sinister pair whose 
presence kept Steve in a hole in the ground. 

“You hadn’t ought to make me laugh so sudden¬ 
like,” she reproved. But as they went onward she 
giggled several times, and he chuckled in sympathy. 
Nothing more was said, however, until they emerged 
into a small field. Before them, dingy and bare, stood 
the Oaks house. 

“ Lost ? ” she smiled then, seeing his surprised look. 
“ Didn’t think it was so nigh, did you ? We come 
back by the short way—it don’t take half as long as 
goin’. Tell me”—she drew closer to him—“what 
you a-huntin’ pop for ? ” 

He hesitated. Then, as bluntly as she had revealed 
her knowledge of Lou and the bridge, he told her. 
She did not seem much surprised, though she was 
plainly disturbed. 

“ I was ’fraid so,” she murmured. “ I figgered ’twas 
somethin’ like that, after you brought that corn-hook 
home. But if pop done that, ’twas Snake that put him 


236 


CAT-O’-MOUIITAIII 


up to it! Consam him! ” She stamped a foot in swift 
wrath. Snake! He is a snake—a nasty poisonous 
copperhead that bites without a warnin'! And he gits 
clear while other folks pay!" 

'' Snake’s the man I want,” he acquiesced. “ I’ve 
been after him, too. But I want to get the truth out 
of your pop. And I’ll get it-” 

“ I’m ’fraid you won’t,” she interrupted soberly. 
“ I’m ’fraid he’s gone for good. Seems like we’d 
have heard somethin’ ’fore if he was a-livin’. Mebbe 
—mebbe Snake done somethin’ to him that night. 
Snake, he’s a-layin’ awful low since then; nobody’s 
seen him.” 

Well, he’U come to light sometime. He’ll have to. 
And now we have to look out for somebody else. I’ll 
get down to the house and bring up that medicine. 
By-by,” 

“ G’by.” 

They parted, to his mingled regret and relief—for, 
be a girl’s father ever so base, it is inevitably distaste¬ 
ful to discuss with her that father’s ignominy. Down 
the road he walked fast toward his own abode and the 
waiting medicine. 

With the sun-baked sand under his feet he realized 
anew how unseasonably hot was the day. The air was 
breathless, and heat-waves curved and twined visibly 
along the highway. Soon he shed his coat and shoved 
back his hat. As he neared his haunted house, too, he 
became more and more aware that the atmosphere was 
tainted by the same odor which had been breeze-borne 
to his nostrils earlier in the day. 



THE HAHD OF THE GHOST 23T 


Then, rounding the little curve beyond which stood 
the Dalton house, he checked his stride. 

Beside the road, in his own yard, were a weather¬ 
beaten wagon and a white horse. They were Uncle 
Eb's. The old man himself was not in sight. 

Douglas jumped forward with increased speed. 
Uncle Eb might be waiting for him in the house, but 
that was hardly likely; the old man did not like that 
house. Had something happened to him? 

The explosive voice of Eb himself came to him. It 
broke from the brushy land on the other side of the 
road, mingled with sounds of progress through thick 
going. 

“—Jest like Jake Dalton,” it was saying, ** jest like 
I'm a-tellin’ ye. Hampton never had no hand into 
this, though I wouldn't blame him none s’posin' he 
had- Wal! thar he is now! ” 

From the brush emerged Eb and two others: the 
man-hunters. Ward and Bill. All were chewing to¬ 
bacco furiously. All looked pale. 

What's wrong ?'' Douglas sharply demanded. 

Wrong! Good gosh, son, is yer nose stopped? 
It's Nat!'' 

Dumb, the blond man gaped at the three. Ward 
and Bill were eyeing him keenly. Uncle Eb pulled 
off his hat, mopped his brow on a sleeve, squirted a 
mouthful of brown juice, and went on barking. 

“Jest like Jake Dalton! He’s up into the bresh— 
'side the brook—face down an’ deader'n—wal, ’most 
as dead as Jake. He’s been ther’ three-four days, 
these fellers think—ever sence he run outen yer house 



238 


CAT-O’-MOUNTAIN 


that night he left his cawn-hook. An’ this hot weather 
to-day—wugh! I ain’t a-goin’ to High Falls to-day 

after all. I’m a-goin’ right back home soon’s we- 

Have ye got a shovel? Nat needs a shovel powerful 
bad.” 

“What happened to him?” Somehow Douglas 
knew the answer already, but he had to ask. 

“What happened to Jake Dalton? I dunno. But 
he’s jest like Jake—swelled up awful, an’ not a mark 
onto him—no gunshot, no knife, no nawthin’—jest 
dead! Ther’s sumpthin’ into that house o’ yourn, son 
—that ha’nt or sumpthin’, I dunno—that kilt him jest 
the same’s it kilt Jake. He run into the bresh an’ fell 
down an’ died same’s Jake done. Have ye got that 
shovel ? ” 

“ No.” 

“ Wal, I’ll go borry one. Glad to git away a few 
minutes. Hoss, c’m’ere! Whoa! G’yapalong! ” 

With an apprehensive backward look at the house 
the agitated old fellow was off. The man-hunters spat 
in unison, never taking their eyes off Douglas, who 
still stared at the brush. Mechanically he got out his 
pipe, loaded it, lit it, and puffed. 

“ Well, fellows,” he said presently, “ this is news to 
me. I’ve been hunting this Nat Oaks—he was the one 
I suspected of knifing my dummy—but I didn’t finish 

him. Looks bad for me, perhaps, but-” 

“You’re in the clear,” cut in Ward. “We might 
make out a case if we tried hard enough, but we ain’t 
tryin’. If the stiff had wounds on him you might have 
some explainin’ to do; and we’re goin’ to do some 




THE HAHD OF THE GHOST 239 


lookin’ round, anyhow. But unless somethin’ new 
turns up we’ll leave the thing lay as it is.” 

Douglas nodded and reluctantly stepped toward the 
hidden brook. The other two remained where they 
were. 

A short distance in from the road he found Nigger 
Nat. He was stark naked, his clothing having been 
cut from him by the pocket-knives of the officers in 
their search for wounds. Feet, hands, and face were 
mired by the mud in which he had expired; and the 
gross face now was a bloated mask of bestiality. No¬ 
where on the torso was any mark. 

Douglas took one rapid, comprehensive look. Then 
he retired hastily to the road, where he reloaded his 
hot pipe and awaited the return of Uncle Eb. Word¬ 
less, two chewing and one smoking, the trio of city 
men stood regarding the haunted house. 

The ha’nt, which of late Douglas had carelessly re¬ 
garded as a sort of joke, was a joke no longer. With 
his own eyes he had just looked on the horrid handi¬ 
work of the grisly thing which stalked within those 
walls by night. What was it ? Why had it not closed 
its fearful grip on his own throat? How long before 
it would do so ? 

Perhaps Jake Dalton and Nat Oaks knew the answer 
to the ghastly riddle. But their lips were sealed for all 
time. 


CHAPTER XXII 


IN THE SHADOWS 

In the house where Nigger Nat, assassin, had him¬ 
self been struck by the hand of Death in the night, 
Douglas Hampton, alias Hammerless, alias Hamp, sat 
alone. 

Nigger Nat lay in his grave, if grave it could be 
called; a hastily dug hole into which he had been 
rolled like a dead skunk. No pretense of ceremony, 
and certainly none of mourning, had graced his de¬ 
parture from the sight of men. Nor was any head- 
board set above his mound. As soon as he had been 
disposed of, his burial party had departed with all 
speed. 

For the sake of the living, however, the spot where 
he lay would be not only marked, but improved. Even 
now his headboard was being carved—and by the man 
whom he had attempted to murder. On a piece of 
planking, found among the odds and ends of Jake 
Dalton's shed and dressed clean with the hatchet, 
Douglas was cutting in deep, bold letters: 

NAT OAKS 

He intended, too, to clear away the brush around the 
mound and cut to it a straight trail from the road, so 

240 


IN TEE SHADOWS 


241 


that the women whom Nat left behind him could—if 
they wished—visit his grave. But that work could 
wait for another day. Now, while Hampton's hands 
were drawing his knife-point along the neat lines and 
hollowing out the spaces between them, his mind was 
reviewing the events since the interment. 

For a time the four men, united in a common task 
of humanity, had shelved their mutual distrust in 
fruitless search for the cause of Nat's death. With 
Douglas' tacit permission, the pair of officers had in¬ 
spected the house from roof to foundations, Uncle Eb 
meanwhile narrating in full the tale of Jake Dalton’s 
death. Douglas in turn had told of his first meeting 
with Oaks, the fight with the dogs and Nat himself, 
his whim to view the sunrise, his finding of the corn- 
hook driven into the dummy. He did not, however, 
deem it necessary to mention the warning note which 
he had partly burned. 

The feller ye want to git,” Uncle Eb barked, 
rounding on Ward and Bill, “ is Snake Sanders! Git 
him an' ye've got the man that's back of all the devil- 
work into the Traps. If ye make him talk, ye’ll git an 
awful lot o’ knowledge all to oncet.” 

The pair, taking in everything and saying almost 
nothing, had nodded slightly at this. And at length, 
non-committal as to what they might plan to do, they 
had gone. Before departure, however, Ward had 
scoffed at the ha'nt. 

“ I don't take any stock in this ghost stuff,” he said. 
‘‘ Oaks was an old souse. Heart prob’ly was rotten 
jvith booze. He came in here with a bun on, took a 


242 


CAT-0’-3I0UNTAIN 


swipe at the dummy, got cold feet sudden—heard 
somethin', perhaps, a rat or somethin'—and beat it. 
Heart quit on him and he croaked. 

“ This Dalton, you say he was a souse too. Funny 
that two guys should croak the same way in the same 
place, yeah. But if the booze you guys make around 
here is as bad as the wildcat whiskey I've struck in 
some other places, I ain't much surprised. It'd kill 
anybody that lapped it up for a steady diet. So long. 
Come on, Bill." 

When they were out of the way, Douglas had talked 
awhile with Uncle Eb. To him he had told something 
of Steve's condition, and from him he had learned 
that Marion already knew of the finding of her fa¬ 
ther's body. In his straightforward way Uncle Eb 
had gone to the nearest place—the Oaks house—for 
the shovel, and had given her the news. She had said 
little—“ acted 'most like she was expectin' sump thin* 
like that," Eb said—and gone at once to her mother. 

“ An' now 'bout you, son,—ye better not stay into 
this place no longer," the old man had concluded. 
“ Come up an' live 'long o' me, don't ye want to ? " 

But the anxious invitation was declined with thanks. 
Douglas had determined to do now something which 
more than once previously he had thought of doing— 
to remain awake all night and catch the ha'nt, if it 
could be caught. The presence of the thing in his 
house was a challenge to him; and if the phantom 
walked to-night, he vowed, he would smash it or him¬ 
self be smashed. This intention, however, he kept to 
himself, merely saying that he had been unhanned 


THE ^HADOW^ 243 

thus far and knew no reason why he should not remain 
so. 

So, bearing with him the quinine and other medi¬ 
cines which Douglas thought might be useful to Steve, 
the old man had gone back to the Oaks house and 
then home. Under the circumstances, Douglas himself 
did not feel like intruding just then on the girl and 
her mother; and the errand could be done just as well 
by Uncle Eb. And now, back to the wall and eyes 
lifting now and then to survey all around him, Hamp¬ 
ton was toiling on the headboard. And the hot day 
was nearing its end. 

Lucky, thrice lucky had been Steve's refusal to ac¬ 
company him home, he thought: lucky for Steve, for 
Marion, for himself. Alone, he had come back openly 
and opportunely. With Steve he would have come 
more slowly and furtively, and by that time the man- 
hunters might have been scouting around in the woods 
on an investigation tour—and promptly sprung on 
their prey. There would certainly have been a fight, 
and before it ended Hampton and even Marion might 
have outlawed themselves. Yes, it was lucky all 
around. 

Leaning back, he inspected his handiwork, yawned, 
and clicked his knife shut. Nigger Nat’s monument 
was completed. Glancing through the open doorway 
at the lengthening shadows, he lifted his brows and 
pulled out his watch. 

“ Where’s the time gone? ” he asked himself. “ It’s 
almost sundown. Better rustle some grub and clear 
the decks for action against Mister Ha’nt. Hope this 


244 


CAT-O’-MOUNTAIN 


isn’t his night off. Do ha’nts work union hours, I 
wonder? Midnight to daybreak, maybe? Might get 
some sleep if I only knew. It’s going to be a long, 
long night.” 

He yawned again, drowsy from the heavy heat of the 
day. When his supper was eaten and his pipe was 
going he yawned still more widely. Twilight now 
filled the great bowl outside—the oddly transparent 
twilight of early evening in the Traps, which lay in 
shadow while the sun still shone beyond the western 
heights. Next would come the grayish blur of true 
twilight, deepening gradually into night. And when 
dense darkness should enwrap all things and the evil 
man-killer of this house should begin to stir about— 
then what? 

He arose, stretching and shaking himself to cast off 
his sleepiness. After a turn up and down the room 
he lifted his gun, ejected the shells, tested the firing- 
pins with a snap or two, looked carefully at the am¬ 
munition, and reloaded. 

‘‘ Little old gun, you’ve been a real pal,” he solil¬ 
oquized. “ I bought you just because you looked 
good and because I thought I might get a bit of hunt¬ 
ing somewhere up in this country before going back 
to town. Little did I think you’d save a girl and blow 
cats and dogs all to thunder and shoot at ha’nts-” 

“ Yoo-hoo! ” 

The musical call from outside cut short his mono¬ 
logue. In three strides he was at the door. At the edge 
of the road stood Marlon. On the sand at her feet 
rested a sack in which something was tumbling about. 



IN TEE ^HADOWE 


245 


“ Don^t you never put down that gun, even when 
you're into the house?" she asked as he crossed the 
grass-ground. He looked foolishly down at the for¬ 
gotten weapon, still gripped loosely in one hand. 
Without awaiting an answer, she went on: “ But you 
need it, I shouldn’t wonder. Are you a-goin’ to stay 
here now, after—after what come to pop ? ’’ 

Yep. Going to sit up to-night and see what will 
happen." 

She contemplated him soberly, then looked down at 
the bag. 

“ I figgered that’s what you’d do. I—I wish you 
wouldn’t. But I brought down some company, like I 
promised. This here is Spit." 

As if answering to its name, the moving thing in 
the sack vented a catty spitting sound. 

You’ll want to shut the door and the winders, if 
there’s any open, Tore you untie his bag," she cau¬ 
tioned. He’s wild, and he’ll go like a shot if there’s 
any way outen the house." 

“ I’ll take care of him. Why do you wish I wouldn’t 
stay here ? " 

She flushed a little, looked at him, dropped her eyes 
again and stirred the sand with a foot. 

Why, you—you’re a neighbor, kind of. And you 
—you’ve been good to Steve." The name came in a 
whisper. 

“ Oh. I sec. Did you take the medicine to 
him ?" 

Yes. He’s a-takin’ care of himself. But he’s 
wilder’n ever at Snake Sanders, now he knows about 


246 


CAT-O’-MOUNTAIN 


pop. He didn’t like pop much, but it makes him hate 
Snake all the more. Where—where is pop ? ” 

“ Over yonder,” he told her gently. “ In a day or 
so you can go in. I’m going to cut a path. You’re not 
blaming me for this thing, are you, Marion ? ” 

“No, I ain’t. Mom, she’s wild jest now—says if 
you never come here this wouldn’t happened, and so 
on—but that’s foolish, and I told her so. She’ll git 
over it. But ”—the firm little jaw set—“ if Snake 
Sanders comes a-pesterin’ round once more now he 
won’t never walk outen our yard! I’ll fix him my own 
self! ” 

“ How?” 

“ With pop’s gun. ’Tain’t much good, but it’ll shoot. 
I got it ready this afternoon, and if I see his sneakin’ 
face jest once I won’t ask questions. I never wanted 
to see him ’fore, but I’m lookin’ for him now! ” 

It was no sudden flare of temper that brought forth 
the threat. It was the cold wrath of the hills that 
sounded in her quiet voice, the deathless hate of the 
avenger that glimmered under her curving brows. 
Once more Douglas studied a new Marion: a girl 
resolute, reckless, ominously hard. 

“ I wouldn’t do that,” he counseled. “ Put the gun 
on him, but don’t shoot. March him down here and 
let me have him. Maybe I can make him clear Steve.” 

“ Mebbe,” she half agreed. “ I’m a-goin’ now. It’s 
gittin’dark. G’by.” 

She was gone, running lightly along the shadowy 
road. Until she disappeared he stood watching her. 
Then he lifted the bag and returned to the house. 


11^ THE ^ADOW^ 


24:7. 


Mindful of her caution, he shut the outer door and 
closed the window of his sleeping-room before remov¬ 
ing the cord from the mouth of the sack. It was well 
that he did. When the rangy, rumpled Spit was 
dumped on the bare floor he gave one baleful glare at 
the man towering over him, one swift survey of his 
surroundings, one spitting comment on the place— 
then he was not where he had been. He was tearing 
about like tawny lightning let loose. 

Douglas made no effort to pursue him. To do so 
would have been as futile as chasing a comet. He 
only stood marveling at the animal’s speed and won¬ 
dering whether he had not better let him out before 
he shot bodily through a window-pane. What good 
would Spit do here, anyway? He would be only a 
complication in the still-hunt of the ha’nt. But— 

Marion had taken the trouble to bring him, and- 

Oh, well, let him stay. 

The lank, homely brute threw himself at every win¬ 
dow, every door, seeming hardly to have hit one be¬ 
fore he was at another. The man gave up even trying 
to watch him. Moving to his supply-shelf, he cut a 
chunk of raw bacon and held it until the baffled Spit 
finally paused, looking for a new point of attack. 
Then he threw the meat. 

Spit jumped into the air, came down glaring, circled 
the meat, spat at it, sniffed at it, tasted it, considered 
it with tail yanking from side to side—and accepted it. 
With famished speed he gnawed it down. When it 
was gone he lapped his jaws and looked at the man 
with a shade of friendliness. It was poor cat-food. 



248 


CAT0’-3I0UNTAIN 


that smoked fat; but it was food, and the half-wild 
creature would eat almost anything. In fact, he was 
ready to devour more of the same. 

But. he got no more. The man placed on the floor 
a cupful of water, then shoved his backless chair 
againk the rear wall and settled himself for the vigil. 
The gloaming now was rapidly thickening into dark¬ 
ness, and there was nothing to do but await events. 

For some time he sat quiet, hearing only the solemn 
chant of deep-voiced crickets, the muffle3 conversa¬ 
tion of katydids, the almost inaudible padding of the 
cat’s feet on the boards. Now and then he vaguely 
made out the lean form of the animal pausing near 
him. Then it moved and vanished into the gloom, un¬ 
easily inspecting every inch of the strange quarters. 
Nothing else passed within his range of vision; noth- ■ 
ing stepped around up-stairs; nothing rustled in the . 
bedroom, ^ 

An hour droned past, and another crept on its way. 
The silent man’s lids began to droop. His recently 
formed habit of going to bed early was asserting it¬ 
self. So were the drowsiness and languor induced by 
the bygone heat. The steady chirp of the crickets, too, 
and the dull darkness—they were floating him gradu¬ 
ally away on an ebb of consciousness. He shook him¬ 
self awake, shifted his position, leaned forward, away, 
from the wall. With renewed alertness he probed the 
gloom. Nothing was there. /-J - - 

Little by little another hour snailed along. Little hy 
little the watcher slumped farther forward. His-^n 
remained steady across his knees, his eyes stayed open,;^ 


IN THE SHADOWS 


249 


but his elbows were resting now on his thighs, and his 
gaze was a somnolent squint, centered on nothing. 
His body was half asleep, his mind more than half 
asleep; for it was dreaming, seeing things gone by and 
places far away, and other things much nearer—but 
not in this house^: some things, indeed, which had not 
yet come about and might never come. And still noth¬ 
ing occurred to disturb his reverie. 

Physical discomfort, not ghostly alarms, roused him 
again. The chair was hard, his position was growing 
cramped, his muscles demanded better comfort. Scan¬ 
ning the room again, he noted with surprise that he 
could see much more plainly. The windows, too, were 
light, and through them he could make out the dark¬ 
some bulk of the trees. The Traps gulf was wanly 
illumined by a late-rising moon. 

Stiffly he arose to stretch himself. Something 
turned gleaming eyes at him. It was Spit, very quiet 
now, crouched comfortably on the floor, watching two 
doors—the open*one into the bedroom and the closed 
one at the foot of the stairs. Man and cat eyed each 
other a moment. Then the man in turn looked toward 
a door—the entrance to his own room, beyond 
which waited his blankets and easy couch of bough- 
tips. 

After all, why not? He could sit against the wall 
there, rest his legs and back, and still keep awake. 
Better take the cat in there, too; then he wouldn't 
start clawing up toward the bacon-shelf or making 
other disturbance. Might as well be comfortable. 
As soon as he heard the ha'nt begin to tramp around 


250 


CAT-O’-MOUNTAIN 


he could slip out and see whatever might be seen. 
All right, he would do it. 

By patient persistence, he inveigled the suspicious 
but curious Spit into the rear room. Entering it him¬ 
self, he had an afterthought: he reached to the attic 
door, turned its knob, swung it open, leaving free ac¬ 
cess for the stair-bumping spook. Then he went into 
his room and almost closed the door, leaving it only 
a little ajar to obviate the fumbling and noise of knob¬ 
turning when the time to leap out should come. Mak¬ 
ing sure that Spit still was there, he relaxed against 
the wall, gun ready beside him. And- 

In less than twenty minutes all good intentions and 
cats and ha’nts were obliterated from his mind by the 
velvety hand of Sleep. 

What time it was when he awoke he never knew. 
But awake he did, to find himself lurching upward, 
every nerve tense, his gun clutched in his right hand. 

The door was open wider now—open nearly a foot. 
In the room beyond lay slanting moonlight. 

Out there, something was struggling. 

Something was making a low, ghastly, inhuman 
noise. 



CHAPTER XXIII 


THE DEMON OF THE DARK 

% 

Douglas felt his hair lift and his skin prickle, ice- 
cold. But he knocked the door wide and plunged out. 
In the moonshine stood no horrible figure. The noise 
was coming from the floor: a growling sound, a slith¬ 
ering scrape, irregular paddings, and the scratch of 
claws on wood. 

There, in the semi-darkness between two windows, 
a small huddle writhed in hideous combat. Rooted to 
the floor, Douglas stood watching its contortions. 
Gradually the writhing movements diminished. But 
the low growl continued, and from the spot glared the 
fiery eyes of a cat which had made its kill. 

The man started from his paralysis. Scratching a 
match along the wall, he held the little flare above his 
head and stared until his fingers twitched back, burned. 

“ Well—ril—be-he muttered, his voice trail¬ 

ing into nothing. 

He had looked on the ha’nt. He had seen Dalton^s 
Death, murderer of men,—expiring in the jaws of a 
tom-cat. 

Snatching the gas-lamp from its nail, he got it to 
burning and turned its ray on the uncanny little bunch 
below. In the white radiance the thing stood out in 

251 



252 


CAT-0^‘M0VmAIN 


horrid clarity. Though merged together, it comprised 
three separate parts. They were cat—rat—rattle¬ 
snake. 

The cat’s teeth were clamped in the neck of the 
reptile. The venomous fangs of the reptile were 
hooked into the head of the rat. The head of the rat 
was nearly hidden within the distended jaws of the 
sinuous slayer. 

This much of the story was plain at a glance: the 
snake had killed the rat, begun to swallow its prey, 
and in its turn been pounced upon by the lightning- 
leaping Spit. But how had rodent and reptile come 
here? Why had he never seen them before? Why 
had Spit allowed the snake to get the rat first? Why 
did that snake’s tail, still moving, give out no warning 
burr? 

Douglas wasted no more time in puzzlement. In¬ 
stead he began a close inspection—^as close as seemed 
safe, in view of the fact that the savage cat struck 
viciously at him with hooked claws when he came too 
near. It was by no means impossible that some snake- 
venom might be on those claws, and the investigator 
was wary of them. Moving around with the light, he 
studied snake and| rodent. 

The rat was long, lank, and old. Its hoary hair, its 
big feet, the tip of one whitish whisker still visible at 
the edge' of the serpent’s gaping mouth, all proved its 
age. It was so old that it would move clumsily. In a 
silent house its feet would thump on the floor. If it 
descended stairs it would bump. 

Nothing very queer about the rat. But about the 


TEE DEMOE OF THE DARK 253 


snake was something very queer indeed. Though it 
was well grown—more than a yard long, in fact—and 
thus should have been well equipped with the warning 
buttons of its species, it had none. It was a rattler 
without a rattle. 

True, its tail bore a small rounded excrescence which 
might be an incipient button; but not a real, well-de¬ 
veloped one. Somehow the tail looked blunt; as if a 
rattle once had been there but had been cut off, ac¬ 
cidentally or otherwise. It kept moving, so that it was 
rather vague in outline. There was no doubt, how¬ 
ever, about the absence of the homy joints which 
should have been there. 

Narrow-eyed, Douglas stood regarding that unnat¬ 
ural tail. For no apparent reason, he suddenly wheeled 
and looked at the windows. Against the panes was 
pressed no leering face. Outside in the moonlight 
stood no sinister form. Slowly he turned back. Into 
his mind had flashed the picture of Snake Sanders 
loosing from a box on Dickie Barre a copperhead. 
Was the appearance of the snake in this house another 
attempt of the same sort? 

“ No,” Reason told him. This thing had not been 
brought here to-night. It must have been in the place 
a long time. Two men had been killed by it. One, 
whose freshly carved headboard even now stood 
against the wall, had died several nights ago. The 
other had been struck down last spring. Beyond a 
doubt, this was what had ended the lives of Jake and 
Nat—striking at their bare feet, driving them in blind 
horror from the house, leaving on their skins only two 


254 


CAT-O’-MOUl^TAIl^ 


tiny wounds which, days later, would be overlooked 
by the men finding their frightful corpses in the woods 
or the brush. This creature must have been here for 
months. 

His deductions were interrupted by Spit. Tiring at 
last of worrying its broken enemy, or perhaps eager to 
begin eating the rat, the cat loosed its hold and, cease¬ 
lessly growling, stepped around and smelt at the gray¬ 
haired victim of the snake. 

Hey! Quit that! ” Douglas snapped You fool 
cat, that rat’s poisoned! If you have the slightest 
scratch on your lips or in your mouth you’ll die! Let 
it alone! ” 

At the impact of his voice Spit leaped aside, spat at 
him, stood flame-eyed, lips writhing and claws un¬ 
sheathed. So menacing was the appearance of the 
creature, so evident its readiness to battle for posses¬ 
sion of that rat, that the man took a backward step. 
Claws and teeth both might be envenomed; even if they 
were not, he knew that an ordinary cat-bite sometimes 
results fatally. But he did not intend to let the cat 
commit suicide. True, the poison might not injure 
the animal’s stomach, but if it entered the blood- 

He shoved the bare flame of his lamp straight at 
the snarling visage. It was the best move he could 
have made. Had he attempted to grasp the animal, 
or even to push it away with a foot, the maddened 
creature might have sprung at him. At that moment 
a mere man meant little to that wild brute. But be¬ 
fore the fire-demon imprisoned in that lamp, before 
the searing blue-white tongue licking out at his face, 



THE DEMON OF THE DARK 255 


even Spit's savage heart quailed. Spitting furiously, 
he sprang back. 

Inexorably the flame followed him. It pressed him 
back into the bedroom. Then the outer door was 
drawn open. The light retreated. Spit sneaked back 
into the main room—but the white-hot tongue was 
waiting for him. It slid forward once more. Sud¬ 
denly it made a twisting swoop toward his mouth. 
That was too much. With a snarly squall of panic a 
tawny streak shot through the doorway into the night. 
Spit was gone. 

The door bumped shut. The man straightened up, 
relaxed, chuckled shortly. Then he turned the light 
again on the feebly squirming reptile and the lifeless 
rat; studied them a moment more; looked at the clean 
pine monument of Nat Oaks glimmering yellowish in 
the background; pivoted on his heels and frowningly 
contemplated the bedroom where both Jake and Nat 
had met their doom. For some minutes he stood there, 
playing the light over every visible inch of the room, 
particularly along the floor. Suddenly he started 
as if a dazzling ray had darted through his mental 
fog. 

“ By thunder! " he muttered. ‘‘ Fll bet-” 

In another three seconds he was flat on the bedroom 
floor, shooting the light along the under side of the 
bed. He saw a series of squares of rope, upholding 
the thick corn-husk mattress. Within each square the 
mattress bellied downward. And in one of those 
rounded curves of cloth, near the outer edge of the 
bed, opened a hole. 



256 


CAT-O’-MOVUTAIl^ 


Douglas lay there, staring up at that hole, until his 
position grew cramped. It was round and smooth- 
edged; the edges looked worn, as if something had 
often passed in and out—something scaly, perhaps, 
whose passage would wear away loose threads. The 
sagging cloth hung not more than a foot above the 
floor. And, now that his nose was near it, he became 
conscious of a repellent odor—a smell suggesting 
snakiness. 

“ Ugh! ” He scrambled to his feet and took a 
breath of clean air. His gaze fell on the rent left in 
the middle of the bed by Nigger Nafs steel. Swift 
aversion to the whole room seized him. IJe spun about 
and stepped out of it. And as he left it he did some¬ 
thing he never had done before—he pulled its creaky 
door shut behind him. He was through with that 
loathsome death-chamber for all time. 

The dead snake now was almost motionless: only 
the blunt tail still quivered in reptilian tremors. Giv¬ 
ing it only a passing glance, Douglas stopped before 
the open staircase and swung the light slowly from side 
to side, examining every step. When the all-revealing 
radiance.was centered on the top he stood as if puz¬ 
zled. Down to the bottom and up to the top he played 
it again. 

“ H’m! How come ? ” he queried. 

The darkness gave no answer. Only the solemn 
crickets dirged on outside. 

Up the echoing stairs he clumped, and on the groan¬ 
ing boards above he deliberately moved about, search¬ 
ing the dusty, dusky recesses of the eaves. Presently 


TEE DEMOE OF TEE DARK 257. 

the moving light stopped, shining steadily into one of 
the front corners. Through the dingy cobwebs fes¬ 
tooning the nook he saw something which brought a 
satisfied nod. 

“ One,’’ he said. .With that he turned away and 
began descending the stairs. 

Almost at the bottom, he halted short. The down¬ 
ward-pointing ray had revealed a thing hitherto in¬ 
visible despite his careful scrutiny of the stairs; some¬ 
thing which an up-ranging eye never would see, and 
which was discernible from above only because the 
swaying light had happened to strike on it. 

“ Two! ” he exulted. That’s it! I’ve got the com¬ 
bination now. Farewell, Mister Ha’nt! Your little 
mystery is busted flat.” 

Yet the thing at which he was looking would hardly 
seem to be the key to an enigma. It was only a hole, 
very inconspicuous in the dirty wall, at the junction 
of the lowest step with the door-casing. And the 
thing which he had found up-stairs in the corner was 
merely another hole. 

Resuming his downward way, he trod across the 
main room, leaned his gun against the wall, set his 
lamp on the stove, filled his pipe, sat down on his 
chair, puffed smoke, and chuckled. 

“ Yes, sir. Mister Rat, you’re caught with the goods 
at last,” he informed the lank old rodent on the floor. 
“ You’re the noisy half of the ha’nt. You’re old and 
stiff, and your feet used to bump down like a ghost’s 
heels. You lived around here somewhere—out in the 
shed, maybe, or up under the attic floor—and you 


258 


CAT-O’-MOUNTAIN 


used to come out of that hole in the comer and ramble 
around, looking for anything to eat. Poor old 
Bumpety-Bump, Ill bet you’re so ancient that you’ve 
lost all your teeth; you certainly look nearly starved. 
Anyhow, you’d find nothing up there, so you’d bump 
yourself down-stairs. Probably you smelt my cheese; 
I had some when I first came here, and Uncle Eb 
brought me up a huge slab of it later on. 

“ But when you hit the bottom you were stuck. 
That door was always shut. So you’d have to give it 
up. And with that other hole right handy, why go 
back up-stairs? You’d just ooze into that hole 
and let it go at that. So would any other sensible 
man. 

“ And that first night, when I came at you with a 
cannon, you heard' me before I could open the door. 
So you just dived into the handy hole, and when I 
yanked the door almost off its hinges you were tee- 
totally gone. And while I was standing there growing 
goose-flesh you were probably sitting up in the wall 
and thumbing your old nose at me.” 

He laughed again in quiet self-derision. 

It must have been tough, though, to come down 
here every night, just drooling-for that cheese, and 
find yourself always blocked. All the same, that’s all 
that saved your life. This other gent here. Mister 
Side-Winder, must have been rat-hunting every night; 
that’s why I’ve never heard rats around here; he got 
’em all. And to-night when I left that door open and 
you came out—well, you know as much about that as 
Ido. 


THE DEMON OF THE DARK 259 


Mister Spit, our little guest of the evening, must 
have followed my noble example and gone to sleep in 
there. Or maybe he had a hard time pulling the door 
open; it does stick when it’s almost shut. Anyhow, by 
the time he catapulted himself into the plot of this 
piece you were on your way down Mister Rattler’s 
gullet—which was just as well for friend Spit, maybe. 
He could, maul Mister Side-Winder then without a 
come-back. Glad of it, too. Spit’s manners have been 
neglected, but he’s a regular fellow, and I’m glad he 
didn’t have to go out by the same route as Jake and 
Nat.” 

He puffed again, and his smile died. When he 
spoke again his voice was cold. 

“ And you, Yard-of-Poison—^how did you get here? 
You’ve been here since spring. Maybe you came out 
too early, got caught in a cold snap, found Jake’s 
door open, came in to get warm. Maybe. Anyway, 
you’ve been here since then. You found a hole in 
the under side of the mattress and crawled in among 
the husks for warmth and concealment. At night you 
got the warmth of Jake’s body, too. And you paid 
for your lodging as a snake would. Some night when 
Jake got up in the dark for something you struck his 
foot. And while he died alone in the black woods 
behind here you crawled back into your hole, well 
satisfied with yourself. 

Some other fellows came, and you missed them. 
They didn’t happen to come near you in the night, or 
you had caught a rat and were sleeping it off in your 
hole. And then I came. And you’re the thing that 


260 


CAT-O^MOVNTAIN 


rustled the mattress beside me that night, and made 
the rickety old bed tremble—^you're the thing I felt in 
the air, there in the room beside me. When I looked 
under the bed you weren't in sight: you had stopped 
when you felt me move. But you came out later, all 
right, and you'd have killed me if I'd stepped near you 
without my boots. And every night since then you've 
been sneaking around ready to get me. Lucky I 
changed beds, and never came out here barefoot for 
a drink in the night, and kept my door shut. Maybe 
Uncle Eb's right, and there's a good angel watching 
over me. Looks like it. 

“ And then Nigger Nat came, and you got him. I 
owe you one for that, perhaps. But he was only a 
tool. If you'd nailed Snake Sanders, now, I'd be 
right obliged to you. But you'd never touch him, of 
course, even if he stepped on you. He's your brother." 

For awhile he smoked in thoughtful silence. The 
buttonless tail now lay inert. Within the house the 
only movement was that of his own puffing, the only 
sound the stutter of his wet-stemmed pipe. 

“ I wonder," he resumed at length, “ I wonder 
whether your brother Snake knows anything about 
how you lost your rattle. I wonder if he had a grudge 
against Jake Dalton. If I ever get him in a comer 
I'll ask him about that. Yes, sir, I will." 

His pipe stuttered more loudly and went out. A 
long yawn stretched his face. Reaching to the lamp, 
he shut off the gas flow and stood up. 

‘‘Yes, sir," he repeated, “I'll give Snake a third- 
degree on that point sometime. And until then I'll 


TEE DEMON OF THE DARK 261 


just keep my mouth shut about your demise. I’ll 
throw you two folks back into the woods to-morrow, 
and I’ll let folks think the ha’nt is still ha’nting. And 
now, with your kind permission, I’m going back to 
bed Good-night, Mister Ha’nt—good-night for¬ 
ever.” 


CHAPTER XXIV 


CROSS TRAILS 

November marshaled her gray hosts and marched 
them across the Shawangunks, 

Out of the west they came, a slow, silent, grim ar¬ 
ray of clouds, drifting steadily above the puny barrier 
of the mountains, covering the sky from rim to rim— 
a vast army which alternately smeared out the sun 
and allowed it to break through the gaps between their 
brigades. At times they closed into mass formation 
and drizzled cold scorn down on the impotent hills and 
the insignificant dwellers therein. Then they drew 
apart and resumed their indifferent, disorderly route- 
step across the heavens, perhaps to spit again on the 
New England mountains farther east and then swing 
northward to merge into the fogs and snows of bleak 
Labrador. Even when they passed in straggling 
groups instead of a long battle-line, they gave the sun 
scant opportunity to light up the whole countryside at 
once, as he recently had done. Ever their chill 
shadows were creeping along the ground, darkening 
long belts of hill and dale while other strips were 
agleam with light. Only at night, it seemed, did they 
draw off into bivouac, leaving the sky clean and clear. 
Then across the land sped their night-flying ally. Jack 
Frost. 


262 


CROSS TRAILS 


263 


And with the recurrence of that biting chill the si¬ 
lence of approaching winter fell on the depths of the 
Traps. At last the katydids were still. So, too, were 
the crickets. By night, when the music of hammer 
and drill was hushed and the cheery voices of roosters 
and hens were silenced by slumber, the stillness would 
have been painful but for the gentle murmur of Coxing 
Kill, singing softly to itself as it crept past the humble 
homes of the hillmen and on into the north. Only a 
few weeks more, and even the friendly little stream 
would lose its voice under the merciless grip of winter 
ice. Then indeed stark silence would hold the great 
bowl at night—desolate, bitter silence broken only by 
the sough of wind-beaten evergreens and the groans of 
cold-tortured hardwoods. 

That time was not quite come. But even now the 
face of the Traps was gaunt and harsh. Gone was the 
velvety mask of green which had partly hidden the 
austerity of the land; gone, too, the flaunting colors 
which had replaced the emerald tone. Through the 
thinned forest everywhere showed thickly strewn bowl¬ 
ders and the grim barrenness of crag-face and naked 
rock slope. The vistas through the brush lengthened 
in all directions. And with this opening of the woods 
a new, sullen, ominous noise began to shock the quiet 
air from time to time—^the sulphurous explosion of 
gunpowder. 

Thus far, the guns of the Traps had been notice¬ 
ably silent. Only at long intervals had one spoken. 
So dense was the undergrowth that the Trapsmen, 
knowing they had little chance of sighting game, had 


264 


CAT-O’-MOUIITAIN 


almost entirely refrained from hunting. But now the 
deep roar of muzzle-loading shotguns smashed the 
stillness early and late, varied occasionally by the blunt 
bang of some black-powder rifle. Mother Nature, 
hitherto the protectress of her feathered and furred 
children, now was betraying them into the hands of 
men. All hunted things moved withnncreasing peril. 

Yes, all hunted things—human as well as animal. 
Hunted men, and the friends of those men traversing 
the brush in furtive missions, were concealed but 
thinly now by the leafless branches. And while most 
of the hunters prowling the wilds were seeking only 
meat and sport, there were also those who stalked 
more dangerous game. 

Three of them, there were. But they did not work 
together. In fact, one of the three avoided the others, 
who worked always as a pair. Yet their separate 
trails crossed at times, and at such times there was a 
verbal fencing, a give-and-take of half-humorous 
banter with an undertone of menace. Hammerless 
Hampton, free ranger, hunter of Snake Sanders and 
silent partner of Steve, outfaced or outmanoeuvred 
Ward and Bill, who also sought Snake but whose more 
important quarry was that same Steve—and who, con¬ 
sequently, scrutinized Hampton’s movements at every 
opportunity. 

“When we git somethin’ on you, Hampton, we’ll 
gather you right in,” Ward reiterated in sardonic 
humor. To which Douglas, with devil-may-care smile, 
would reply: “ All right. But it’ll take both of you to 
do it. How’s business ? ” 


CROSS TRAILS 


265 


“ Oh, pickin’ up all the time,” with a carelessness 
that might or might not be assumed. “We know 
about where one of our guys is hangin’ out, but we’ll 
let him lay until we git to talk to the other one a little. 
We’re gittin’ a good vacation, and we ain’t in any 
rush.” 

How much of this ambiguous answer was true 
Douglas could not tell. And, suspecting that it was 
purposely phrased to evoke questions from him, he 
made no queries as to which of the “ guys ” was being 
spared while the other was sought. Nor did he ever 
allow his eyes to stray in the direction of Steve’s 
subterranean cavern; he knew Ward! was subtly tempt¬ 
ing him to give some involuntary indication of his 
knowledge of the fugitive’s retreat, and he gave none. 
He observed with misgiving, however, that the pair 
now seemed always to be somewhere near Dickie 
Barre. 

Ward’s half-jest about the “vacation,” though, 
seemed to hold much of truth. He looked like the 
instinctive outdoorsman, who really would derive much 
pleasure from working in rough country. Certainly 
both he and Bill showed the good effects of open-air 
life: the city sleekness of flesh and redness of face were 
gone, and they were more lean of frame, more lithe of 
movement, brown of skin and clear of eye. Bill still 
wore the sour look which seemed habitual, and toward 
Hampton he always maintained a grouchy silence— 
perhaps because he knew he would get the worst of 
any verbal encounter. But, from the physical stand¬ 
point, there could be little doubt of his ability to hold 


266 


CAT-O’-MOUUTAIU 


his own with almost any one. He and his mate now 
were a formidable combination. 

If it’s not a sassy question, how do you fellows 
manage to live in here ? ” Douglas wondered at one of 
their unexpected meetings. “ Shouldn’t think you’d 
find it easy to get food and shelter.” 

“ Oh, that’s easy. We’ve got a little shelter of our 
own, where nobody’ll bat us over the dome when 
we’re sleepin’. And for grub, we have a wagon that 
comes up every so often from down below; meets us 
outside, and we pack in the fodder. Anything else 
you want to know ? ” 

“ Sure. How much longer are you staying ? ” 

** Till we git our man, of course. Do I have to 
keep tellin’ you? It’s takin’ a little longer than we 
thought, but we’ll be here as long as he is.” 

The quiet determination of the tone stirred Hamp¬ 
ton’s admiration despite himself. 

You ought to be on the Royal Northwest 
Mounted,” he laughed. ‘‘ You have the same stick-to- 
the-trail doggedness.” 

“ I was with ’em,” was the unexpected reply. “ Five 
years ago. Up in Alberta. Too much snow. Too 
much horse. Too lonesome. But I know what stickin’ 
on the trail means, yeah. This here stuff is nothin’ 
but play, lined up alongside of some things I seen.” 

The simple statement was a revelation to Douglas. 
Bill of Brooklyn, if left to himself, would have quit in 
disgust before now. But Ward, former R. N. W. 
M. P., would never abandon his quest until officially 
called in—or unofficially shot. He would imperturb- 


CROSS TRAILS 


267 


ably stick until the coming of the snows should make it 
impossible for any one to carry food to Steve without 
leaving a trail. And with the laying of that trail he 
would run his man to earth in no time. The sky 
suddenly looked very black for Steve. 

But the blond man strove to keep his thoughts out 
of his face, and after a few more words he passed on, 
cudgeling his brain for some means of helping the 
fugitive to evade the remorseless power creeping closer 
and closer to his covert. A number of ways had pre¬ 
viously occurred to him, but none of them was feasible 
in view of Steve’s own refusal to leave his native en¬ 
vironment, his determination to die first ** like a wolf— 
into the rocks or the trees.” Against that immovable 
decision what could he do? Nothing. 

Nothing except the thing he now was trying to do— 
corner Snake Sanders. If cornered, Sanders might 
possibly be forced to clear Steve. The hope was slim, 
but still there was a chance —if he could corner 
Sanders! The thought revolved on itself and mad¬ 
dened him with its futility. The man Sanders was 
still eluding him, and, despite Ward’s nonchalance, 
undoubtedly was evading the officers also. And the 
telltale snow which must reveal Steve’s refuge might 
come at any time now. 

Through Marion, he knew that the earth-bound boy 
had fought off his lung-pains and was somewhat 
stronger, though by no means well. For the present, 
therefore, he was not worrying over the youth’s con¬ 
dition. In fact, he had asked himself a couple of 
times why he should take so deep an interest in the 


268 


CAT-O^^MOVl!JTAIN 


fellow anyway; then he had left the question unan¬ 
swered, merely telling himself that ** the poor kid’s 
in hard luck, and he’d do as much for me—maybe.” 
He had not faced squarely the fact that the basic 
motive for his sympathy was his desire to aid the girl. 

He had seen her several times since the death of 
the ha’nt, but only for short periods. Her mother, he 
learned, still was bitter against him, and—as perhaps 
might have been expected from one of her type— 
persisted in putting on him some of the blame for the 
death of her man.” Marion herself, though frankly 
asserting that she had no patience with such an atti¬ 
tude, was pensive and rather reserved in manner. 
Therefore he refrained from unnecessary calls. 

She had asked him, of course, about his success in 
hunting the ha’nt; indeed, she had shown unmistak¬ 
able relief when he rambled into her yard the next 
day to ask whether “ Spit got home all right.” In 
pursuance of his decision to keep hidden for the pres¬ 
ent the annihilation of Dalton’s Death, he had an¬ 
swered evasively, telling her truth but not all of the 
truth: that Spit had tom madly about in an effort to 
escape, that the door had swung open later on and 
the cat had run out, that he himself had tired of 
watching and fallen asleep on his blankets. “And 
you can see for yourself,” he concluded, “ that noth¬ 
ing gobbled me.” 

And since then he had been steadily seeking Sanders. 
He had changed his hunting-ground now from the 
vicinity of Snake’s shack to a section nearer his own 
house—the long wall of Dickie Barre. Thither he had 


CROSS TRAILS 


269 


been led by an idea of his own, and there he worked 
day after day with a grim persistence equalling that 
of Ward and Bill, coupled with a methodical thorough¬ 
ness which they might well have emulated. 

The germ of his idea was the recollection of his 
first meeting with Steve and of Marion's production of 
the Jug which, she said, belonged to Snake. She had 
not gone far that morning to get that jug. So, start¬ 
ing from the well-remembered crack among the bowl¬ 
ders where his camp had been, he now delved into 
every crevice and cavern within a radius of a few 
minutes' traveling time from that focal point. 

He found snakes, but none with legs. In one gloomy 
passageway leading inward he was halted by a rustle 
among leaves just ahead. His ears telling him that the 
sound was too slight to be made by stealthily moving 
feet, he hazarded the light of a match—and found 
himself in a den of copperheads. The deadly reptiles 
had abandoned the well-watered lower lands and 
sought higher ground to bed themselves down for the 
coming winter, and now they lay in a sluggish knot, 
nearly buried among the leaves. Their lifted heads 
and unwinking stare, however, showed that they were 
by no means too numb to attack ; and Douglas, though 
well booted to the knee, had no desire to tread among 
them. Moreover, the presence of the reptiles and the 
untrodden appearance of the leaves virtually proved 
that no man was beyond. Wherefore he withdrew. 

In other recesses farther north he found, at times, 
evidence of the occasional visits of men, clandestine 
or otherwise; the mute testimony of charred fagots 


270 


CAT-O^^MOUHTAIN 


and smutted stone, of scrapes on rock and of inden¬ 
tations showing that weighty things had stood for some 
time in certain spots. These traces, however, all in¬ 
dicated bygone activities, not recent occupancy. 
Whatever had been carried on in those crevices and 
culs-de-sac, both the equipment and the products now 
had vanished. Whether the evanishment was due to 
the fact that the Law still prowled about was a ques¬ 
tion which did not concern the silent hunter. He was 
looking for a man, one man; and, not finding that man 
or his lair, he moved on without delay. 

Then came an unexpected impetus to his search. 
One afternoon, as he was threading his way around a 
bulk of detritus which obviously contained no open¬ 
ing, a drab figure detached itself from a massive tree- 
trunk near at hand. He looked into the foxy face of 
the little cooper, David McCafferty. 

Jest a-layin’ for a couple o’ squir’ls,” Davy ex¬ 
plained his presence. “ Havin’ any luck ? ” 

Not yet. I’m hunting—snakes.” 

A shrewd nod and a glance around followed. In a 
hoarse whisper the barrel-maker informed him: I 
hearn ther’s a bad one—wust one round here—^been 
seen down ’long here a piece. Mebbe ’bout hail a mile 
or so down. I dunno nothin’ ’bout it. But ther’ might 
be somethin’ into it.” 

With another quick look around, he retreated to his 
tree. Douglas, without trying to render unwanted 
thanks, waved a hand and went on. A little later he 
heard behind him two roaring gunshots, and hoped 
Davy had bagged both his squirrels. 


CROSS TRAILS 


271 


He did not, however, swing away through the woods 
for an estimated half-mile and there resume his con¬ 
ning of the crags. Davy’s directions had been too in¬ 
definite, and he was determined not to leave an un¬ 
explored gap in his steadily lengthening line. His sys¬ 
tem was to cover as much ground as he could in each 
short day, leaving some sort of marker at the point 
where twilight compelled him to cease, then return to 
that marker the next morning and do another section. 
Thus, though his progress through the welter of stone 
was necessarily slow, he was making it absolutely sure. 
And now he held himself to the deliberate course he 
had set. 

When the dusk descended he had laboriously made 
certain that Sanders’ hide-hole, if he had one along 
here, was somewhere to the north of a buttress-jut 
beside which he had stopped. After fixing that out¬ 
crop firmly in memory and lightly blazing a couple of 
beech saplings with his pocket-knife for reassurance 
the next morning, he swung down through the brush 
to the road and home to his cheerless house. 

Ho-hum! ” he yawned over his after-supper pipe. 

I’m beginning to sympathize with Ward. Hunting 
down a man in this old Indian stronghold is real work. 
If it weren’t for Davy’s tip to-day I’d begin to think 
Snake was dead somewhere, like Nigger Nat. But 
there’s no such luck. Well, Snake, maybe to-morrow 
night I’ll know more about you.” 

The vague hope was to become terrible truth. To¬ 
morrow night he would know much more about Snake 
Sanders—including something which would stagger 
the entire Traps. 


CHAPTER XXV 

■ * ’ 

ninety-nine’s mine 

Hammerless Hampton stood very still. 

Once more he was among the rocks. But these 
grotesque bulks around him were new; he never had 
penetrated into this group before. In fact, but for 
his careful observation of every opening he would not 
be here now. He had spied a hole in what seemed to 
be the solid precipice, beyond which showed light in¬ 
stead of the usual gloom. Crawling through, he had 
found himself in a big space whose existence was 
concealed by the false face of the cliff. It was one of 
the freaks of the long-vanished glaciers, perhaps, mov¬ 
ing outward a long line of solid stone and leaving be¬ 
yond it a big gouge in the real butte. At any rate, it 
was queer. 

But this was not what held Douglas so quiet; he had 
long since ceased to marvel at the fantastic formations 
along his line of exploration. Now, after passing 
among a number of small bowlders—that is, no larger 
than a three-room house—he stood beside a hole open** 
irig downward. And beside that hole lay several 
charred matches. 

In his mind those tiny stubs loomed larger than the 
long wall itself. Some man had been here quite re¬ 
cently : at some time since the latest rain, which would 
have pelted those cylindrical sticks down along the 

272 


NINETY-NINE’S MINE 


273 


sloping stones on which they lay. And that man was 
no hunter, for no hunter would ever bother to enter 
this barren box. Indeed, no hunter would even find it, 
for he would be scanning ground and branches, not 
the naked rock-face. 

Warily the discoverer glanced at the corners of the 
surrounding stones. No spying eye met his; no half- 
hidden head moved. He looked down again at the 
opening. 

It was a hole made by the uptilting of a once hori¬ 
zontal slab. It was near the true face of the butte. 
At some time, perhaps not long distant, a mass of over¬ 
hanging stone had crashed down from above, a jutting 
segment striking this slab at one end and angling the 
other end upward and aside by the force of impact. 
Before then, the horizontal block had been a sort of 
trap-door, concealing the cavity beneath. Now, plain 
to any eye which should reach this place, the opening 
revealed a few flat stones leading downward, mark¬ 
edly resembling crude stairs. 

Across Hampton^s face shot a sudden startled look 
—the astounded incredulity of a skeptic beholding in 
solid actuality a thing which he had believed to be 
mere legend. For minutes he stood as if hypnotized 
by the gloom below. Then, recovering himself, he 
stepped very quietly into a position where he could 
obtain a more direct view of the descent. 

He saw little more. The steps vanished into the 
blackness of a vault. What lay beyond could be de¬ 
termined only by exploration. Exploration meant 
light; and, barring the few matches he always carried, 


274 CA T-O'-MO Ul^TAIN 

he had no means of illumination. Moreover, he felt 
issuing from the depths a draught which probably 
would kill the feeble match-flames before they could 
reveal anything worth seeing. He must return to the 
house and bring up his gas-lamp. 

But then, moving again, he caught a glint from down 
the steps—a glint of metal. Logic told him that the 
other man who came here must have used those 
matches in lighting a lantern. If that faintly shining 
thing down there was it, then the man must be away 
at present. He stole closer, straining his eyes—then 
stepped boldly forward. There was little doubt now 
that he saw the circular top of a cheap oil lantern, 
and he believed he could also make out the dull-colored 
wire bail. 

With some difflculty he folded himself up enough to 
crouch under the tilted lid and begin descent. After 
a couple of steps he could move more easily, and by 
the time he reached the lantern he was erect again. 
Lifting the lantern, he shook it and frowned. The 
light swash at the bottom told him that the oil was 
almost exhausted. 

If a large cave lay beyond, he would have to be 
careful not to go too far from the entrance. Left 
lightless, he might find himself in a desperate plight. 
Even as the thought passed through his mind there 
came to his ears a faint gurgle of subterranean waters. 
Yes, he must watch his step, and his flame too. But 
he would see what he could. 

Two matches were extinguished by the damp 
draught as he sought to light the blackened wick. The 


mNETT-NINE’S MINE 


275 


third, however, communicated its flame to the oily 
weave, and the snapping down of the sooty chimney 
preserved the dim shine within. Unlike the owner of 
the lantern, Douglas did not leave his match-stubs 
where they fell. He gathered them up and dropped 
them into a pocket. 

Gun ready, he stole on downward. There were 
perhaps a dozen more of the steps, not one of which 
was truly horizontal; all sloped in one direction or an¬ 
other, and no two were of the same height. Some 
were so poorly balanced that they rocked under him, 
and all evidently had been piled in by unskilled human 
hands, long ago. But Douglas, cat-footed from his 
daily experience among the bowlders, passed down 
them as easily as if they had been a marble staircase 
constructed by expert workmen. They terminated on 
a downgrade of damp, hard earth. 

The passage led on, narrow but fairly straight, for 
quite a distance. All at once it broadened out. At the 
same time the blackness became noticeably less dense. 
Faintly, here and there, showed grim rock walls— 
mere patches of stone, vague in the farther gloom, re¬ 
vealed by wan daylight filtering through some crevices 
high up and opening eastward. Simultaneously the 
hollow gurgle of the running water increased in 
volume. It sounded somewhere beyond. 

A moment Douglas stood there, straining his eyes, 
seeing little. The dim lantern-light seemed to hinder 
rather than to help, preventing his pupils from dilating 
to the full width which might have brought more of 
the place into view. He felt an impulse to extinguish 


276 


CAT-O’^MOUNTAIN 


it. But it would go out of its own accord all too soon; 
perhaps if he did blow out the flame the wick would 
refuse to take a new light. He let it burn, and began 
moving about. 

Before he moved far, however, he retraced his steps 
and spread on the uneven floor his handkerchief. 
Three corners of the cloth he folded in to the center, 
leaving the fourth protruding in a white angle toward 
the entrance. With this marker in place he advanced 
again, watching the dirt for any yawning crack, paus¬ 
ing to look around, then resuming his way. After a 
little while he reached the farther wall, having found 
nothing. There he halted. 

The light-crevices were plain enough now—mere 
cracks in the stone, back whence he had come, from 
twenty to thirty feet up. Off to his left sounded the 
rumbling of the water: an eerie, gruesome noise un¬ 
like the gentle murmur of Coxing Kill; a gargling and 
choking, as if some inhuman monster were gulping at 
an unseen Styx. Before he could decide whether to 
go and look at it, something to the right caught and 
held his gaze—a shadowy, shapeless thing which gave 
the impression of solidity but not of stone. He worked 
toward it. 

As he approached, it took on form and outline—a 
confusion of ancient timbers and rock-chunks which 
seemed to be a tumble-down furnace, or something of 
the kind. Just what it might have been he could not 
determine at once: but it certainly was a work-place, 
and very old. 

His toes stubbed on something. The lantern proved 


NINETY-NINE’S MINE 


21% 


the obstruction to be the remains of a heavy hammer,^ 
half eaten away by rust. As he moved again, his 
lantern-light glinted dully on metal not far from the 
ruined forge—if forge it was. His interest quickened. 
Metal not dimmed by rust—what was it ? 

Stepping toward it, he stumbled again. A heavy, 
dull-colored obstacle on the dirt had blocked his feet. 
It was not especially large, but it certainly was solid, 
as his tingling toes testified. It seemed to be a rudely 
shaped bar of metal. And it was not rusty. 

Great g^ns!'' he breathed. “ Is it true ? Silver ? 
Tarnished silver? ” 

As he stared at it, it began to grow dim. Was it 
about to vanish into the ground like a legendary treas¬ 
ure? No, it was not sinking; it was still there; 
but- 

The light was going out. 

The little flame had shrunk. It still was shrinking. 
Angrily he shook the lantern. A thin—very thin— 
slosh of oil answered him. There was still a little fuel 
—enough to last several minutes, at least. But the 
wick must be short 

The shaking gave a brief respite. The flame re¬ 
vived a trifle, feeding on the oil-dregs thrown on the 
wick. Swiftly he stepped toward the glimmering 
thing he had first Seen. It was on the floor, and be¬ 
side it rose a number of those solid bars, piled like 
wood. It was a tin can, recently emptied. 

After one glance at it he pushed rapidly on toward 
the outer wall, determined to see as much as possible 
by the last light in the lantern. He found still more 



278 


CA T-O’-MO UN TAIN 

of those bars, and, beyond them, something made much 
more recently: a thick, comfortable bed of leaves, on 
which lay open a coarse, dirty quilt. Beside this, at 
what seemed to be the head of the primitive couch, 
and within easy reach of a man resting there, stood 
a big jug. Somehow it looked famihar. Its nozzle 
was plugged with a stout corn-cob, and—yes, on one 
side was an old smear of green paint! 

“ Thought so,” nodded Douglas. 

Memory was depicting a bygone morning among the 
rocks to the south; a red-haired girl, a gaunt-faced 
youth, a jug which the girl declared to be the property 
of Snake Sanders—a jug bearing the same green 
splotch. Its presence here was conclusive evidence. 

All was growing dusky again. The light was going 
for the last time. It was no longer a flame, but a mere 
sunken line, turning blue; and from the spent wick 
rose a warning reek. With a shake that made the 
foul globe chatter angrily within its wires, he turned 
and gripped one of the cold metal bars. For its size, 
it was astoundingly heavy. He had meant to carry it 
imder one arm, but its sullen weight and clammy 
slipperiness forced him to hug it in both. With bar 
and gun both cradled across his body and lantern 
dangling crazily from one finger, he moved for the 
exit. 

It seemed to be nearer than he had thought. The 
last flickers of the expiring light revealed a black gouge 
in the wall. Into it he turned, muttering to the lantern: 
“ All right, quit! I don't need you any more.” 

The overworked wick did quit, leaving him in utter 


mNETT^NINE’S MINE 


279 


blackness. Half a dozen more steps he took, watching 
for the first vague dayshine from beyond. Then he 
halted as if petrified. He remembered his handker¬ 
chief. And he remembered that he had not seen it 
on turning in here. 

Carefully he lowered his burden. With hands free, 
he struck a match. 

“Wow! You can back-track. Mister Man!” he 
muttered. 

Less than a yard ahead opened a wide rift in the 
floor. One more step in the dark would have trapped 
him in a pit where death, swift or slow, would in¬ 
evitably have obliterated him-; death from the fall, 
from starvation, or from Snake Sanders' merciless 
hands. 

“ Yes, you can back-track,” he repeated. “ Wouldn't 
Snake have a lovely afternoon with you if he found 
you in there, all busted up? He'd drop in a few of 
his squirmy chums to keep you company, most likely, 
and have the time of his life watching the show. And 
if he didn't find you, nobody else ever would. Now 
use your brains, Hamp, if you have any, and find the 
right way out.” 

Conning the situation, he realized that the most im¬ 
portant feature was saving matches, of which he had 
very few. Therefore he groped until he had located 
bar, gun, and lantern; gathered them up, turned care¬ 
fully, and felt his way back by keeping an elbow 
against the rough wall of the false passage. When 
the stone ended he halted again, laid down everything, 
lit another fire-stick, and, carefully shielding the flame 


280 


CAT‘0^-M0U1^TAI1^ 


from draught, advanced to the left. As he walked he 
counted his steps. 

Three matches in turn burned out. The third, how¬ 
ever, brought him within sight of a white splotch sev¬ 
eral feet to his left. The fourth proved it to be his 
pointer. 

He now had only two matches left. But he knew 
the number of steps, including the turn he had made 
toward his handkerchief: he had the vague crevice- 
lights to aid his calculations for the return, and he 
had approximately the right direction in mindi. De¬ 
ducting from his total count the few steps taken on 
the last angle, and concentrating every sense into the 
task of traveling straight, he marched back through 
the darkness. So true was his course that with the 
last step his foot struck the invisible lantern. 

Once more loaded, he sought the exit, saving both 
matches. But his steps were a trifle shorter now that 
he was burdened, and he also strayed a little from his 
line. It took both matches to set him right at the end; 
the second was almost out before he could even see the 
white, and before he could reach the marked spot the 
light was gone. However, he found the opening in 
the wall; and when he went groping along the passage 
he had retrieved his handkerchief. The only traces 
of his visit now were the last two match-butts, which 
he had had to drop. 

The wan light of day had seldom been so welcome 
as when, after a scraping, stumbling journey, he 
emerged at length at the crude staircase. With a long 
breath of relief, he clambered up to the step whereon 


NINETY-NINE’S MINE 


281 


he had found the lantern. There he replaced the 
grimy light-giver on the exact spot where he had dis¬ 
covered it. On upward he continued, and out from 
under the tilted lid he crept. 

No new sign of human presence was visible outside. 
He strode around the nearest bowlder. Behind its 
sheltering bulk he laid down his bar of loot and began 
close inspection of it. 

With his clasp-knife he scraped away an accumula¬ 
tion of dark sediment, baring a narrow strip of the 
true metal. From the clean space shone a dull silvery 
gleam. 

By thunder! ” he breathed. ‘‘ Sure as shooting, 
it’s- But wait, now. Let’s see.” 

He dug the point of the strong blade into the metal. 
Turning it, he easily cut out a conical chunk. After 
scanning it an instant, he pressed his thumb-nail down 
on one circular edge. The nail bit out a clean gouge. 
For a couple of seconds more he stared at the little 
plug of metal, at his knife-blade, at his nail and the 
end of his thumb. Then he lifted his head and laughed 
—silently, but so heartily that tears came to his eyes. 

He knew now what it was that the long-dead Ninety- 
Nine had dug from the bowels of that shadowy 
cavern; what it was that the Indian who sought the 
aid of old Elias Fox had borne away from the mine; 
what the old man’s sly glimpse had depicted as virgin 
silver, and what his son and grandsons since had 
sought until crushing doom annihilated one of them. 
His laughter ended as he eyed the great block whose 
fall from above had pried up the stone trap-door. 



282 


CAT-O’-MOVNTAIU 


That might be the very mass which had hurtled down 
on Will Fox. Under it even now might be lying his 
splintered bones. 

Dubiously he eyed the cliff above, half dreading 
another such fall. But there was no overhang of 
stone now, no danger of another drop. He let his 
thoughts run back again. 

Long ago he had perceived the flaw in the tradition 
that “ where the sun first strikes the wall, there is the 
mine.’^ The sim, moving north or south with the 
changing seasons, would cast its first beams on dif¬ 
ferent points of the wall at varying times of year. 
Even when he had climbed the Mohonk slope to see 
the sun rise he had been aware of this; and since then 
he had relegated the whole story to the realm of myths. 
Yet the mine was real enough, and he had found it 
at last; and, through his good-humored promise to 
Lou Brackett, part of it belonged to her. 

But Snake, Lou's own man, had found it before 
him. This was why he had been so elusive of late; 
this was where he had been most of the time, evading 
all eyes and perhaps working to get more mineral 
from the vein. Was it likely that he would share his 
secret with Lou? Hardly. Perhaps he intended soon 
to drive her from him, and hoped—the thinker's face 
hardened—hoped with his new-found wealth to gain 
possession of Marion. 

The thought brought him to his feet. Where was 
Snake now ? What was he doing? Was all well down 
below? But then, as if in answer, arose the vision of 
glacial gray eyes and the echo of ominously quiet 


NINETY-NINE’S MINE 


283 


words: “ Pop’s gun—I got it ready—if Snake comes 
a-pesterin’ round he won’t never walk outen our 
yard! ” 

The self-reliant girl was well able to defend herself. 
He need not worry. But he began moving away, leav¬ 
ing behind him the soft silvery bar. One last glance he 
threw at it, and a hard smile twitched his lips. 

“ It was a treasure in Indian days,” he thought, 
“ and I haven’t a doubt that you. Snake, you ignorant 
reptile, think you’re a coming silver king. But you’ll 
never make much money out of those few bars of 
lead! ” 


CHAPTER XXVI 


SNAKE STRIKES 

** Snake Sanders has kilt his woman! ” 

Aghast, Douglas stood in his dark doorway, staring 
down into the upturned face of Marion. Around them 
the dusk was thickening into night, and in the shadow 
of his porch it was dim indeed; but through the gloom 
the eloquent gray eyes and the hushed voice spoke the 
same shocked horror, pity, and wrath that stirred in 
his own soul. 

Killed her ? Killed Lou Brackett ? he repeated 
slowly. 

“ Yes. She ain’t dead yet, but she can’t live long. 
Poor woman, it’d been a lot better for her if she’d 
missed that tree—she wouldn’t be sufferin’ now. But 
then, there wouldn’t be a proof against him if she had. 
Where you been all day? You must be the only one 
into the Traps that ain’t heard. I was down here 
twice—I wanted to tell you so’s you’d look out. They 
ain’t caught Snake yet, and he might—well, you better 
watch out.” 

She turned, sweeping the darkling road with her 
eyes. Nothing moved there. No sound came, except 
the doleful sigh of a cold night breeze. 

“ Come in.” He moved back. ‘‘ I want to know all 
about this. The fire’s going—I was just getting sup¬ 
per. Come in and keep warm.” 

284 


mAKE STRIKES 285 

For an instant she hesitated, instinctively dreading 
entrance into the sinister house where her father and 
Jake Dalton had met nameless doom. But then, real¬ 
izing that Douglas had lived here for weeks without 
harm, she followed him in. Her moving feet made an 
unwonted noise on the boards—the patter of leather- 
heeled shoes, which the gnawing chill had at last com¬ 
pelled her to don. The sombre echo of the sound in 
the bare room halted her again. 

“ Ain't you got a light ? " she requested. “ I—I 
don't like this place, so dark and holler.” 

“ I’ll light up. Take this chair.” The one chair in 
the place came rumbling toward her, and she sank on 
it as he worked on the lamp. When the white flame 
was lighting up the room he set the illuminator on the 
table and turned to her, neglecting to draw the burlap 
window-curtains which he had made some time ago. 

“ I was up in the rocks all day,” he explained. 
“ Found something, too, that may help to catch Snake. 
But now tell me all about it.” 

“ Well, this is what I hear, and it’s what Lou said 
her own self after she got so’s she could talk. Snake 
took her up on top the Big Wall last night and throwed 
her'off-” 

‘‘ Good God! Threw her off the Wall? ” 

“ That’s right. Snake ain’t been to home much 
lately—you know that—^but he’s come in a few times, 
and then he was so ugly to her she dasn’t go lookin’ 
round to find out where he was when he was away. 
He told her if she stepped a foot away from the house 
he’d know about it, and he’d fix her so’s she wouldn’t 



286 


CAT-O^-MOUNTAIN 


be able to walk or talk any more, and if anybody come 
a-huntin’ him she’d got to say she didn’t know where 
he was, and so on. But last night he come in ’long 
toward dark, and he was laughin’ fit to kill. And 
he said he’d got an awful good joke onto the detec¬ 
tives. 

“ She asked him what ’twas, of course, and he 
wouldn’t tell her. But he said he’d show her if she’d 
hurry up to the top of the Wall. He said the de¬ 
tectives had got into the rocks down under the Wall, 
and when she could see what they were up to she’d 
’most die laughin’. But she’d have to come and see it 
her own self. 

“ Well, Lou, she—she ain’t very bright, you know. 
And she was so glad to see him good-natured and so 
curious about this joke onto the detectives, she went 
right ’long up there with him. And he went right to 
the edge and looked round a little, and then he says; 
‘ There! See ’em, right up under here ? It’s a-gittin’ 
dark down there, but look close and you’ll make ’em 
out. Ain’t that funny, now ? ’ 

“ Lou, she couldn’t see anything but rocks. But he 
kept a-tellin’ her she was too far back, so she edged 
up closer and closer, still a-lookin’. Then all of a 
sudden she heard Snake laugh again, and he had 
sneaked behind her, and that laugh scairt her. She 
looked round quick, and he was grinnin’ like death. 
And before she could move he shoved her off. The 
murderin’ copperhead! He’d brought her up there 
jest to kill her.” 

Her fingers, twining and intertwining over one knee 


SNAKE STRIKES 287 

while she talked, gripped hard. Unable longer to sit 
still, she sprang up. 

“ D’you know where he is? If you do, git him 
quick! Lou wasn’t a friend to me—she hated me— 

but he’s got to be kilt for what he done! He-” 

Go on,” he broke in. “ Tell me all of it Then 
I’ll see what we can do.” 

“ Yes—yes, that’s right Well, Lou would have 
been Idlt right quick, only for one thing. There was a 
tree part way down, growin’ right off the face of the 
wall, the way they do sometimes—a hemlock, stickin’ 
out on a slant. And Lou struck right into it. She 
was failin’ awful fast, and she hit it so hard it—it 
hurt her terrible; and the tree tore off from the little 
ledge, and it went ’long down with her. She landed 
into the rocks, of course. But that tree had stopped 
her enough so that the rocks didn’t kill her. 

“ She laid there a long time, and when she got her 
senses back it was all dark. But then a light showed 
right close by, and what d’you s’pose she saw ? Snake I 
Snake, with an ax into one hand and a lantern into 
the other, a-lookin’ for her! 

“ He must have seen that tree stop her, and he’d 
come down through the Gap and worked ’long through 
the rocks to be sure she was dead. He was a-callin’ 
to her, and sayin’ he’d help her, and so on. But she 
kept dead still. She was into a shadow beside one of 
the rocks, and he went right by her. She never moved 
till he quit lookin’ and come back, swearin’ at her and 
the dark and everything. And then when she was 
sure he was gone, she started crawlin’.” 



288 


CAT^O’-MOUNTAIN 


She stopped again, her hands clenched, Douglas, 
visioning that awful scene at the base of the night- 
bound crags, stood with jaw set. Presently she re¬ 
sumed the tragic narrative. 

“ I dunno how she could do it, but she did—she 
crawled down through the rocks and over pretty near 
to the road. It took her more’n half the night to do 
it—it was ’most two o’clock into the mornin’ when they 
found her. She couldn’t git any further, and she laid 

there a-cryin’ and a-screamin’- Oh, why does God 

let a devil like Snake live ? Seems like He ain’t much 
good to let sech things be! 

“ But anyway, there was two fellers out coon- 
huntin’, and the dogs had run a coon up that way, 
and they found Lou. It was Tom Malley and Joe 
Weeks—they live ’way ’long on the Paltz road, and 
they’d drove up this way to hunt. They went and 
got their wagon and put Lou in and took her down to 
the Malley place, and while Tom’s folks did what 
they could he put for the doctor, ’way over to Paltz. 
The doctor, he says she might live a few days, but 
that’s all. She’s awful tough, like all the Bracketts— 
they die hard. But she can’t live; she’s hurt too 
bad.” 

“ And she was able to tell about it ? ” 

Yes, a little to a time. And Missus Malley, Tom’s 
wife, she was sharp enough to have it all wrote down. 
There’s quite a family of ’em, the Malleys, and the 
oldest boy is quick at writin’, folks say; and she made 
him set there by the bed and write down every word 
Lou said. The doctor said that was a right smart 



SNAKE STRIKES 289 

thing to do, and the detectives said so too. They 
didn't have to ask her-” 

“ The detectives ? Did they go down there ? " 

One of 'em did. T'other stayed here. They're 
both here now. Tom Malley was so mad he drove up 
here this mornin' and told everybody he come across 
about it, and he met the detectives, and one of 'em 
went back with him—the quiet one that don’t look so 
much like a bulldog." 

Ward. He's the brains of the combination. And 
I suppose nobody else around here is doing anything 
but talk about it." 

“ Ain’t they ? You're the only one. Mister Hammer¬ 
less Hampton, that ain’t! Our fellers are kind of 
rough, mebbe, some of 'em, but they don't set still 
after a thing like this! Every gun into the Traps is 
out after Snake, 'ceptin' yours and mine. And mine’s 
been waitin' for him ever since pop got kilt." 

‘‘ So has mine," he reminded her. “ What are the 
boys doing?" 

They're a-watchin' every way out of the Traps. 
They know he ain't gone—they 'most caught him this 
afternoon, up to his house. He didn't know about 
Lou bein' alive and found, I s'pose, and he was gittin' 
his stuff together as if he was goin' somewheres—gun 

and food and oil and so on- What would he want 

oil for, I wonder? Anyway, he skinned out of a back 
winder when they jumped in at the door. Job Clark 
shot at him, but he missed, and Snake got into the 
woods and they lost him. But the house is bein' 
watched now, and so's every road and trail. He's got 




290 


CAT-O’-MOUNTAIl^^ 


his gun, though, and if you’re a-goin’ to stay in to¬ 
night you’d better lock up tight. He might come and 
git you. And now I’d better go home.” 

“ Wait. I’ll go along with you. But let me figure 
on this thing first.” 

For a silent minute or two he fixedly regarded the 
blank wall. As steadily, she watched him. Soon he 
nodded. 

“ That’s the best way,” he said, half to himself. 

I’d like to get him single-handed, but if he should get 
me instead—nobody else would know where he was 
hanging out. Yep, I’ll take some of the boys with 
me.” Turning his gaze to her, he announced de¬ 
cisively : “ By to-morrow noon Snake will be dead or 
in a trap he can’t squirm out of. I found his hole 
to-day, and as soon as daylight comes I’ll get some of 
the fellows together and we’ll bottle him up. No use 
trying it to-night—I couldn’t find the place myself in 
the dark. But if all the trails are watched he can’t go 
anywhere else, and getting him will be easy. All we 
have to do is to sit around like a bunch of terriers 
watching a rat-hole, and when he comes out—nothing 
to it! ” 

“ Where? Where is it? ” she demanded. “ Are you 
sure it’s his place? Mebbe—mebbe some of the 
boys-” 

“ No, it’s none of the boys,” he smiled. “ The boys 
have cleaned up all their places lately—hid eveiything 
somewhere, so the detectives wouldn’t see too much if 
they went poking around. And I know this is Snake’s 
place because his jug is there—green paint on one side 



SNAKE STRIKES 


291 


—remember ? I’ll tell you all about it some other time. 
But now—say, here’s an idea! I’ll try to get those 
detectives both up there, and while we know where 
they are you go to Steve and try to make him leave 
that cold hole of his and find a better place. If he 
wants to make a run for it and leave the Traps awhile, 
nobody’ll stop him-” 

A shake of the head negatived his budding plan. 

“ He won’t run, and he won’t change, and he won’t 
listen to sense,” she declared. He’s more set and 
wild than ever now. He’s got to git Snake, he says, 
’fore somebody else does. I hadn’t ought to told him, 
mebbe. But I did tell him—I went to him jest now 
and told him ’bout Lou and all. I jest got back from 
there—I ain’t even been home yet. I wish I’d kept 
still. He’s crazy as a coot. He swore he’d come out 
and git Snake his own self, detectives or no de¬ 
tectives, and he’d take pop’s gun to do it with. I had 
an awful time quietin’ him down. He’s sick again, too 
—his lung’s bad some more.” 

“ Good Lord! Sick again ? ” 

“ Yes, sick again. He looks awful bad. I dunno 

if he- But I’d better git ’long home. He’s so wild 

about Snake he might come and git that gun, sick or 
no sick.” 

“ But you said you quieted him down.” 

Mebbe I did. I hope so. I told him he couldn’t 
have that gun ’cause I had to have it my own self, and 
that made him shut up. But he wouldn’t promise to 
stay where he was—he wouldn’t say yes or no or 
nothin’. And he’s so bull-headed when he gits 




292 


CAT-O^-MOUNTAIN 


his mind set, he might- Well, I’m a-goin’. 

G’by.” 

As she turned doorward, he stopped her with a 
swiftly formed decision. 

“ Just a minute more, Marion. I’m going with you, 
as I said before; and I’m going to stay. My job to¬ 
night is going to be standing guard at your house. 
Then you and your mother can get a good sound sleep. 
It isn’t Steve I’m thinking about—it’s Snake. If he 
intends to call on anybody to-night it’s more likely to 
be on you than on me. So if you don’t mind my sit¬ 
ting on your steps-” 

The sentence never was finished. Nor was the plan 
ever carried out. 

As Douglas turned to step toward his hat, coat, and 
gun, the front door jumped inward. 

Snake Sanders, shotgun leveled at his hip, evil face 
aflame, stood in the room. 




CHAPTER XXVII 


TRAPPED 

Swift and sudden as was the appearance of that 
murderous figure, it was little quicker than the move¬ 
ments of Douglas and Marion. 

For one fleeting second the pair stood as if petrified. 
For the same time Snake halted as if blinded. Coming 
from the outer dark, he had sprung straight into the 
brightest beam of the gas lamp, which happened to be 
centere.d on the doorway. The shock to his optic 
nerves was too great to be overcome at once even by 
the instinctive narrowing of his lids. He wavered 
aside, trying to dodge the sight-searing ray without 
taking his gaze from the man he hated and the girl he 
coveted. 

Simultaneously the trapped pair leaped. 

Douglas lunged toward his own gun—and tripped 
over the forgotten low chair. Marion sprang between 
him and the menacing muzzles which jerked to cover 
him anew. 

“ Don’t you! ” she screamed. “ Don’t you dast 
shoot! ” 

The clatter of the overturned chair and the thump 
of a solid blow terminated her words. Douglas, un¬ 
able to regain his balance, had pitched headlong against 
the stove. The impact dazed him. He fumbled, strove 
to rise on legs that seemed useless. 

293 


294 


CAT-O’-MOUNTAIN 


Snake’s venomous face split in a lethal grin. With 
a hissing laugh he sidestepped, jumped forward, 
snapped the gun-stock to his shoulder. 

Crash ! 

Buckshot cannoned toward the groggy man reeling 
up from the floor. 

But the frightful charge of leaden death missed. 
With the muzzle less than six feet from its victim— 
it missed. It smashed through a window. The bellow¬ 
ing shock of the discharge roared out into the silent 
night, reverberating far along the crag-girt Traps. 

Marion had leaped again. With the lightning speed 
of a maddened catamount she had struck at the gun, 
knocking it aside just as the hammer fell. Now she 
was gripping the twin barrels in both her strong young 
hands, wrenching and yanking in a furious effort to 
wrest the weapon from its owner. 

“ Leggo ! ” snarled Snake. Leggo, ye red cat! ” 

“ I won’t—I got you now—Douglas !—Git him! ” 

She strained in frenzy, jerking, twisting—^but ever 
keeping the muzzles pointed upward. 

Stunned anew by the concussion so near his head, 
Douglas did not hear her panted command. Nor did 
his numbed brain turn him of his own accord toward 
his shotgun. Though he had carried that weapon 
habitually of late, he was not a born gun-fighter; and 
now, in his foggy condition, he acted only by primi¬ 
tive instinct. But he was acting. He had regained 
his feet, seizing the upturned chair as he rose; and 
now he was lurching forward, poising the chair for a 
crushing down-blow. 


TRAPPED 


295 


With a louder snarl Snake heaved himself backward, 
dodging away from the oncoming menace and swing¬ 
ing up his gun with all his power, striving to break 
the girl’s hold. But she hung on. Lifted clear of the 
floor, still she hung on. And Douglas, his senses 
quickening every instant, pressed in faster and 
harder. 

“ Got you! ” Marion gasped. “ Right into the house 
—where you—kilt my pop-” 

Smash! 

Glass shattered. Through the side window licked a 
length of dull steel. Douglas almost collided with it. 
He halted. It was another gun-barrel. And it cov¬ 
ered Snake and Marion. 

Marry! ” crackled a harsh voice. “ Git ’way! 
He’s mine! ” 

Behind the cocked hammers of the gun glimmered 
a white face: a drawn, haggard face dominated by 
hollow eyes in which gleamed cold ferocity. 

“ Git ’way! Git back! Leggo that ’ere gun! I’m 
a-shootin’! ” came the ice-edged voice again. But the 
commands ended in a cough, followed by a choked 
moan of pain. The muzzles wavered. Then they 
steadied again. 

That voice, that face, that gun, seemed to freeze 
Snake. Fear shot athwart his contorted visage. His 
arms turned limp. Marion, feet again on the floor, 
hands still desperately clutching the steel, flashed a 
glance at the window, another at Snake—and tore the 
gun from his relaxing fingers. An instant too late he 
snatched for it. It was gone from him, and its muz- 



296 


CAT-O’^MOUNTAIN 


zles—one impotent, but the other deadly—were four 
feet away, yawning at his face. 

“ Good gal!A freezing chuckle sounded at the 
shattered frame. Don’t ye kill him less’n he jumps— 
he’s mine! I got to talk to him a minute so, an’ 

then- Hamp, shove up the winder 1 I’m a-comin’ 

in.” 

“ Can’t, Steve,” Douglas replied mechanically. 
“ Never could get this sash up. It’s warped solid. 
Come around.” 

The fierce face hung in the dimness a moment 
longer before it moved. Then, reluctantly: ‘‘ Aw- 
right, if I gotta I gotta. But ye watch him close! 
He’s a snake—if he moves bust him! ” 

As the barrel withdrew Snake darted desperate 
glances at the pair. He saw a tense, ready girl, flame¬ 
haired, flame-eyed, holding him at bay like an angel 
of vengeance; a grim-jawed man who once before 
had knocked him senseless, who had been relentlessly 
trailing him for many days, who now stood alert and 
all too eager to avenge three attempts on his life. But 
if he could only dodge that one barrel and dive through 
the window- 

“ Don’t try it! ” the hard voice of Hammerless 
Hampton warned. “If she should miss you I 
wouldn’t! I’m only holding off because you’re Steve’s 
meat. Make one little move and-” 

The threat of the hovering chair was all too plain. 

Snake licked his thin lips, shot a look doorward— 
then shrank back as if trying to merge himself with 
the unyielding wall. A moment ago he had plumbed 





TRAPPED 297 

the hot eyes of Wrath. Now he looked into the stony 
countenance of Revenge. 

Steve was in the room. Steve, bom like a wolf, 
wild as a wolf, now was merciless as a wolf. Through 
his matted black hair his cavernous eyes glared in con¬ 
centrated hate; across his bristle-bearded mouth 
stretched a fang-toothed grin; in his creeping step was 
the stiffness of a timber-wolf about to leap and rend. 
At his hip hung the battered double gun of dead 
Nigger Nat, hammers back like the heads of striking 
serpents, triggers tense under wasted fingers, muzzles 
slipping with nerve-shattering slowness toward the 
vitals of the cornered betrayer and murderer. So 
appalling was the utter ferocity of that shambling figure 
that Marion’s face paled and her weapon sank, while 
even Douglas felt ice crawl down his spine. 

“ Three year! ” the avenger rasped through his 
teeth. “ Three year I done for ye! I’d ’a’ died, only 
I swored I’d git ye. Snake—I’d git ye ’spite o’ bars 
an’ walls an’ guards an’ all hell! An’ now’s yer time 
to pay! Ye’re gone! ” 

Snake’s face writhed again. Desperately he strove 
to avert his doom. 

Steve, ye’re wrong! I tried to git ye clear-” 

Shet up! Ye dirty liar! Ye-” 

“ But wait, for Gawd’s sakes! Gimme a chance to 
tell ye! Ye was drunk that night—ye was wild— 
crazy—I couldn’t handle ye. Ye got ’way from me. 
Fust I knowed, the place was a-burnin’ an’ ye 
a-shootin’—I resked my own life a-tryin’ to git ye ’way 
—don’t ye mind me a-haulin’ ye down the road an’ 




298 


CAT-O’-MOUNTAIN 


the Bumps a-shootin- after us an’ how ye tumbled 
sudden? I thought they’d hit ye, kilt ye, an’ I had to 
look out for myself then. Mebbe ye don’t ’member— 
ye was so drunk-” 

“ Ye lie! I was drunk—ye got me drunk a-purpose 
—but I can ’member better’n ye think I can. Drinkin’ 
never makes me crazy: it makes me sleepy: but a 
thing that happens when I’m drunk stays clear into 
. my head when I’m sober ag’in. Ye can’t wiggle out, 
ye p’ison varmint! I’m a-shootin’ right quick. But 
' fust ye got to tell me how ye kilt Nat. Wha’d ye do to 
him ? Speak up, blast ye 1 ” 

“ I never! ” Snake’s voice rose to a scream. “ I 
never! Last I see o’ Nat that night he was a-trompin’ 
round the road crazy drunk. I was Nat’s friend—I 
been your friend—I’m here now ’cause I’m friends 
with all the Oakses! Lookit that feller Hampton! 
He’s yer wust enemy! He set the ’tectives onto ye— 
he tolled Marry into this ’ere house to-night—he’s 
a-gittin’ her ’way from ye—he’s doin’ ye dirt to every 
turn! ” 

The desperate play to distract Steve’s attention al¬ 
most succeeded. It was a diabolical stroke at the hard¬ 
bitten youth’s innate distrust of outsiders and at his 
jealousy. So unexpected was it that for an instant 
Douglas and Marion stood staring blankly; and Steve, 
brain aflame, nearly turned to confront them. Had he 
done so, Snake could have jumped, shoved him toward 
Marion, and sprung out of the door before either of 
the guns—or the chair, which Douglas had lowered— 
could stop him. 



TRAPPED 


299 


But he did not quite succeed. Steve’s eyes turned, 
but the deadly muzzles did not swing more than an 
inch. Then, just as a sinuous quiver of forthcoming 
action ran through Snake, eyes and muzzles darted 
back at him. Simultaneously Douglas stepped forward 
with fists clenched and Marion with gun lifted. 

Hold up a minute, Steve,” Douglas requested 
ominously. I owe him one for that. You, Snake! 
Step out and put up your hands! ” 

Don’t you! ” the girl rebuked him. " He’s a-tryin’ 
a trick! Steve, it’s all lies! I’ve got a good mind to 
kill him my own self. But I ain’t a-goin’ to, and don’t 
you shoot him neither. What good will it do to-” 

“ I been waitin’ three year! What ye think—I’ll 
let him loose now ? ” A harsh cackle followed—end¬ 
ing in another of those involuntary moans. Steve 
lurched slightly. His face drew even tighter. “ Keep 
off, the both o’ ye! ” he gasped. 

“ Make him tell the truth! ” Douglas shot back. 
“ Give him to the officers—they’ll get the truth out of 
him—the truth that will clear you ! Don’t you see ? 
You won’t have to hide any more then. You’ll never 
have to go back to the pen. And he’ll get what’s com¬ 
ing to him for murdering Lou. If you shoot him he 
never can clear you—the law will be after you all your' 
life! Are you going to kill your own chances? Don’t 
be a fool! ” 

His rapid counsel stayed Steve’s fingers even as 
they tightened on the triggers. So set on personal and 
deadly vengeance had the youth been that the thought 
of making his betrayer rehabilitate him with the Law 



300 


CAT-O’-MOUNTAIN 


had never occurred to him. Even now the idea made 
but slow headway against his fixed mania for revenge. 
But he held his fire^ letting the dazzling possibility 
grow in his mind. 

That’s what I was tryin’ to tell you, Steve,” sec¬ 
onded Marion. “ He can’t talk if you kill him! Now 
you git away—we’ll give him to the detectives—you 
git back to the cave and stay there till we tell you to 
come out-” 

Snake broke in. He had been squinting wildly at 
Douglas. 

“Lou? Ye say I kilt Lou? I never! She—she 
fell offen the Wall—I didn’t have nothin’ to do with it 
—she got dizzy-” 

All at once his eyes widened, looking beyond them. 
Douglas half turned, then forced his gaze back, sus¬ 
pecting a trick. But it was no ruse. Quiet footsteps 
sounded at the rear of the room. Then spoke a cool, 
authoritative voice. 

“ Stand still, everybody. Don’t try anything sudden. 
We’ll take charge of this thing now.” 

Three heads jerked around. Snake still stared. 
From the obscurity of Douglas’ sleeping-room had is¬ 
sued two men who now advanced watchfully, right 
hands under their coats. They were Ward and Bill. 




CHAPTER XXVIII 


AN ACCOUNT IS CLOSED 

From the surprise of seeing those dreaded detectives 
two men recovered quickest—Douglas, who had no 
fear of them; and Snake, who had every fear of them. 

Marion and Steve seemed frozen. Their guns had 
swerved from Snake’s body. The door still stood 
open, and between officers and criminal stood three 
people. Snake broke^or freedom. 

But Douglas had thought of that. Hardly had he 
glimpsed the officers when he swung back. At Snake’s 
first move he sprang. 

Snake reached the doorway. But he went no 
farther. With the all-concealing darkness before his 
eyes—something struck him. An arm swooped under 
his jaw, yanking fiercely back on his throat. A knee 
smote the small of his back, numbing his legs. A 
savage fist crashed under his right ear. He collapsed. 

Still holding his throat-lock, Douglas dragged him 
back to the middle of the room and flung him down 
wdth a thud that jarred the whole house. 

“ Here he is,” he said curtly. Now grill him.” 

“ Good eye, Hampton,” Ward approved, smiling 
grimly. “ We couldn’t git to him with these kids in 
the way. Guess you got a whole lot of satisfaction 
out of that wallop, huh? ” 


301 


302 


CAT-0^-M0UIITAI2^ 


“ A whole lot! ” Douglas nodded, opening and shut¬ 
ting his right fist. “ Now you- Steve! Quit 

that! 

The refugee, his wolfish teeth bared, was slowly 
backing doorward, his gun now covering the hated 
trailers. 

“ Yeah! ’’ snarled Bill, reaching backward again. 
“ Put that gun down and freeze right where y’are! 
We wantcha, my fine boid! 

“ Ye ain't got me," came the hoarse answer. “ An' 
ye don't git me! Ye pull that gun o' yourn an’ ye 
won’t never shoot! I got ye cold! " 

It was deadly truth, and Bill knew it. One twitch 
of the fingers, and he would be a riddled corpse. But 
he was brave enough. With his long-sought quarry 
at last before him, he did not shrink from the cold 
muzzles as he once had from the hammerless gun in 
Marion’s hands, up the road. 

“ Ya got one chanst," he growled. ‘‘ Put that gun 
down and wait while we sweat this guy. If he comes 
acrost ya’ll be free. If ya shoot I’ll git ya before I 
hit the floor." 

“ And so will I," Ward coolly added. Show some 
sense ! We’re givin’ you a square deal. Now if you’re 
guilty as charged, try makin’ your getaway. If you 
ain’t, stick around. This guy here is goin’ to talk." 

Marion also, who had been tensely watching the pair, 
turned on the gaunt fugitive. 

“ Steve, you heard what he said," she challenged, 
looking him straight in the eyes. If you shoot or 
run it’ll show you did burn out the Bumps! I want to 



AN ACCOUNT IS CLOSED 303 

know my own self whether you did or not. You 
better stay here.’' 

Through a silent pause Steve stood slit-eyed, study¬ 
ing his foes: the men who had hounded him so long, 
and the one who had caused that hounding. Snake 
was reviving. He was staring blankly upward. On 
him the hunted youth’s gaze fixed. Slowly he let his 
weapon sink. 

“ Ye keep offen me,” he warned. “ I ain’t a-runnin’. 
But I’m a-keepin’ my gun. I’m a-stayin’ right where 
I be. Don’t ye come nigh me! ” 

That’s good enough,” consented Ward, after a 
shrewd look. “ You stay right there. Now everybody 
shut up. I want to talk to this guy Sanders.” 

In an undertone, however, he said to Douglas: 
“ Kid looks sick and off his nut. Is he ? ” 

“ Sick, yes. Lungs. May be pneumonia,” was the 
muttered reply. Ward frowned. Then he snapped at 
Snake. 

“You, Sanders! Git up and talk turkey! We’ve 
got you dead to rights. No lies, now I ” 

Snake, sitting up, dizzily eyed each hard face. 

“ Wha—wha’d ye want? ” he muttered thickly. 

“ Stand up! Back against that wall! Come on, 
move! And don’t pull any gay stuff. You got some 
explainin’ to do, and the less wigglin’ and dodgin’ you 
try the better off you’ll be. Understand ? ” 

Snake got up, looking confused. The other thved, 
also glanced in a puzzled way at the officers. Here 
was a murderer, condemned by the revelations of the 
woman whom he had hurled to her doom; why did 


304 


CAT‘0’‘M0U1^TAIN 


they not drag him out forthwith? They acted as if 
they only meant to question him, and then, perhaps, 
let him go. 

But Douglas, studying Ward, felt that the man- 
hunter knew what he was about, and said nothing. 
Marion and Steve, too, kept silence. Sanders slouched 
against the blank inner wall designated by Ward. 

“ Now git this in your head, first off,” Ward said 
crisply. “ WeVe been in here quite awhile. We’ve 
been learnin’ a lot—about you. It’ll do you no good 
to try any lyin’. You come clean, and you may save 
a lot of trouble all around. Know what I mean ? ” 

Snake nodded dubiously, but with hope beginning 
to glimmer in his shifting eyes. Douglas saw light. 
This assumption of omniscience and of infallibility in 
detecting falsehood, this intimation that full confession 
would benefit the prisoner—these were part of the 
stock-in-trade of policedom, as the ex-newspaperman 
well knew. They formed both a wordless threat and 
an unexpressed promise: absolutely non-committal, 
yet subtly potent. 

‘‘Well, then, what about this lad? Did he do that 
burnin’ and shootin’, or did you? Remember he’s 
right here, listenin’ to what you say. Bill, move over 
a little. Sanders, you look the kid right in the eye. 
Now then! What about it ? ” 

As Bill, hovering ready at Sanders’ left, drew back. 
Snake turned unwillingly and looked at Steve. The 
youth made no movement, spoke no word; but his 
glittering eyes bored into Snake’s inmost being. Un¬ 
der that baleful glare, under the chill scrutiny of four 


AN ACCOUNT IS CLOSED 


305 


other pairs of eyes, the yellow soul of Sanders 
shriveled. He quailed visibly. Shifting his gaze, he 
encountered again the piercing orbs of Ward. 

“ I—done—it,’’ he whispered. 

“ You did,” Ward repeated clearly. “ All right. 
That’s the stuff, Sanders, tell it straight. Now just 
tell the whole thing—why you did it and how you did 
it and all the rest of it. You’ll feel better then, maybe. 
Come on, spill it all.” 

Snake boggled over the start; but with a little more 
brisk urging by Ward, whose manner was as matter- 
of-fact as if the crime were nothing more serious than 
fishing out of season, he began a hang-dog recital. 
Ward, reaching into an inner pocket, quietly stepped 
behind Douglas. The latter felt a note-book being 
pressed against his back, followed by the quiver of a 
rapidly moving pencil. Unseen by Snake, whose eyes 
rested on the floor, the whole story was being recorded. 

Shorn of twists and turns and blundering attempts 
to show Justification for the attack on the Bumps, the 
confession corroborated the tale told by Steve that 
afternoon in Uncle Eb’s kitchen. Snake asserted that 
the Bump crowd had cheated him in a berry-picking 
deal, stolen some of his “ pick ” outright, assaulted 
him when he demanded his due; all of which perhaps 
was true. He denied having plied Steve with liquor 
in order to make him a scapegoat, but admitted having 
deserted him after the commission of the crime. x\nd, 
so far as the crime itself was concerned, he cleared 
Steve absolutely. 

When his stumbling narrative was concluded. Ward 


306 


CAT-O’-MOUNTAIN 


gave him no rest. Whether or not confession be good 
for the soul, man-hunters know that it is good for the 
ends of justice to keep a criminal talking when once 
he has started. Wherefore he briskly asserted: 

That’s good, Sanders, that’s fine. Now tell us what 
happened to Nat Oaks. You were with him. Come 
on, open up.” 

“ I—I—I dunno. I warn’t into this house with him. 
Honest to Gawd! ” 

“Not in the house? Outside, though. Sure. Out 
in the yard, now? You saw him come out, anyway. 
What did he do ? ” 

Snake wriggled; glanced around; licked his lips 
again; looked cornerwise into Ward’s eyes. 

“ Wal—uh—I tell ye. Nat, he was crazy drunk. 
He come down here to—to git Hampton. He was 
p’ison mad ’bout them dawgs that Hampton kilt. I 
come with him—I was tryin’ to git him to go home— 
I didn’t want no-” 

“ Never mind that stuff. What did he do? ” 

“ He—uh—he snuck in by hisself. I was out into 
the road. He was into the house—all to oncet he give 
a yell an’ he come a-runnin’. He never said nawthin’ 
—he was a-fussin’, like, into his throat, a-groanin’ an’ 
a-grumblin’—an awful kind of a noise! He come 
a-tearin’ right by me an’ went kersmash into the bresh, 
an’ I hearn him a-thrashin’ round into the dark, an’ 
then I didn’t hear him no more. An’ I was scairt— 
I run right up the road an’ put for home. That’s 
Gawd’s truth, fellers. I dunno what got him—’less’n 
’twas Jake’s ha’nt.” 



AN ACCOUNT IS CLOSED 


307 


His head was up now, and he looked into the faces 
of the others as if telling the truth—or part of the 
truth. Ward regarded him silently, perhaps deciding 
to let the Oaks matter rest. Then Douglas shot a 
sudden question. 

“ What did you have against Jake? ’’ 

Snake’s jaw dropped. He stared as if a ghost had 
risen from the floor. Bill and Ward looked mystified, 
but watched him keenly. From Steve sounded a low 
grunt, as if he partly understood and wholly approved 
the question. Marion, a rapt witness of the proceed¬ 
ings, stood awaiting the answer though not compre¬ 
hending the purport of the demand. 

“ I—uh—me an’ Jake—we didn’t have no trouble,” 
stuttered Snake. ‘‘What ye mean? We was good 
friends-” 

“Ye lie! ” broke in Steve. “ Ye said Jake stole yer 
licker, an’ if he done it ag’in ye’d git him! I hearn ye 
an’ Jake a-rowin’ ’bout it one time up into the rocks— 
before I got sent away. Ye told him if he stole ’nother 
jug o’ yourn he’d find snakes into it! ” 

“Aha! ” Douglas pounced on the revelation. “And 
he did steal another, eh ? Did he ? Quick, now! ” 

The vicious face reddened with quick anger. 

“Yas, he did! He done it more’n oncet—the fat 
hawg-bellied fool!—he’d steal every time he got a 

chance. He was too lousy lazy to make his own-” 

“ And so you chopped off a rattler’s rattle and put 
the snake in here! Didn’t you ? Hurry up! ” 

“Yas, I did, ye smart Aleck! What of it? Puttin’ 




308 


CAT-O’-MOUNTAIN 


a snake into a house ain’t killin’ nobody. I only done 
it to scare him.” 

So ? A fine way to scare a man—cutting off those 
rattles! You’ll be saying next that you only meant to 
scare me awhile ago when you shot at me on the floor. 
You only intended to scare me when you let that cop¬ 
perhead out of the box on Dickie Barre, maybe— 
without letting me know it was there. Of course! 
You know mighty well what killed Jake, and Nat, too, 
and you’ve been expecting the same thing to get me 
here—that rattler. Now you all listen a minute while 
I tell you what Dalton’s Death was.” 

And for the first time Douglas revealed the truth 
about the ha’nt. 

That’s the only reason why you let me live here in 
peace,” he accused. You thought your snake would 
finish me as it finished Jake. When it didn’t you put 

Nat up to stabbing me, while you stayed outside-” 

“ Ye can’t prove nothin' I ” flared Snake, eyeing him 
in hot hatred. “ I wisht a dozen snakes had bit ye, ye 
meddlin’ sneaker! But ye can’t prove what ye said— 
ther’ ain’t a witness nowheres! An’ how would I know 
the snake had gone to livin’ into the bed? How’d I 
know it didn’t go outen the house? I didn’t make it 
bite Jake—I didn’t know ’twas here when Nat come— 
ye can’t prove I put Nat up to cornin’—an’ that shootin’ 

jest now was a accident—my thumb slipped-” 

“ Lies, lies, lies! ” Douglas growled. Accident ? 
The same kind of accident that threw Lou over the 
edge of the Wall! But your accidents are finished 
now, thanks to the accident that she hit that tree and 




AJ^ ACCOUl^T IS CLOSED 309 

wasn’t killed All right, Ward. I’ll shut up. Take 
him away.” 

Ward was scowling, as if Douglas had upset his 
program. But he nodded shortly and reached under 
his coat. His hand came away with a pair of hand¬ 
cuffs. 

“No need of any more grillin’, I guess,” he said. 
“ We’ve got all the proof we need about the Brackett 
matter, and this guy can tell his side to the judge. 
Stick out your hands, Sanders! ” 

Snake seemed paralyzed. His eyes were bulging, 
and he stared at Douglas as if disbelieving his ears. 
His mouth worked twice before words came. 

“ She warn’t kilt? ” he blurted. “ She ain’t dead? ” 

“ Not yet, but soon,” Ward snapped. “ She’s dyin’, 
but we’ve got her whole story wrote down and wit¬ 
nessed. Didn’t know that, did you? Thought the 
fellows around here were shootin’ at you just on 
suspicion, hey? Nothin’ to it, Sanders—^you’re up 
against it cold. You give us the double-cross 
once awhile ago, but we’re collectin’ on that little 
deal now. Shove out those hands before I bust you 
one! ” 

Utter desperation blanched Snake’s face. His hands 
began to lift as if weights were dragging them down. 
His hunted eyes flickered all about. Suddenly he 
stiffened. His left hand flashed up, pointing. 

“ It’s a lie! ” he screeched. “ Ther’ she is—ther’ by 
the winder! Lou! Lou! Come in an’ tell ’em it’s a 
lie! ” 

So real was his sudden appeal that involuntarily 


310 


CAT-O’-MOUNTAIJ^ 


every man wheeled to see that imaginary figure be¬ 
yond. Instantly Snake struck. 

His right fist shot against Ward’s neck, knocking 
him headlong. His left smashed into the face of Bill, 
who was turning back to him. Bill, too, toppled and 
fell—but reached for his revolver even as he dropped. 
Hampton, jumping at his enemy, collided with the 
empty wall. Snake was not there. 

He was flashing across the room. At the window 
he stopped an instant. His hand licked out, seized 
Hampton’s gun leaning against the wall. He spun 
about, half leveled it at Hampton, jerked both triggers 
—got no answering explosion. The safety was on, 
locking the weapon against discharge. With an oath 
he whirled to throw himself through the window. 

A sharp report cracked from the floor where Bill 
lay. It was drowned by a stunning crash beyond the 
prone officer. The house heaved with the terrific con¬ 
cussion. Blue smoke blurred the whole room. 

Deafened, Douglas teetered on his heels, peering 
through the haze at a mangled huddle under the win¬ 
dow. 

Faintly to his numbed ears came a piercing yell of 
sated vengeance. 

“ I got him! ” screamed Steve. “ Both barrils! 
Yeeeeowl ” 

Then, grinning like a mad wolf, the pain-racked 
boy slowly crumpled to the floor and lay still. 


CHAPTER XXIX 


OUT OF THE PAST 

Three men straightened up and turned slowly away 
from a shot-riddled thing which also had been a man. 
Their gaze centered on another motionless form a few 
feet away, its thin hands still clutched around a bat¬ 
tered old muzzle-loader. Beside that silent figure 
knelt an anxious-eyed girl, down whose shoulders hung 
disordered red hair. 

“ Well,” said Ward in business-like tones, “ this is 
what I call a good clean-up. The quicker a snake 
gits killed the better. This one’s as dead as they make 
’em, and the State won’t have to spend a nickel on 
givin’ him a trial and bumpin’ him oil. Nor it won’t 
have to give this kid any more board and lodgin’ down 
the river. All we’ve got to do now is have you folks 
witness that confession, and then we’ll drift out and 
report. Sanders was shot resistin’ arrest, and Bill 
here done the shootin’. Ain’t that right. Bill ? ” 

He winked at his burly partner. Bill grinned heavily 
and returned the wink. 

“Yeah. That’s right. Killed by Officer William 
Moiphy in p’formance o’ dooty. I dunno if I hit him, 
but I shot and he croaked, and that’s good enough for 
the records. But what about the kid? Hadn’t we 
oughter take him out till they fix up the red tape 
down below ? ” 


3“ 


312 


CAT‘O^^MOUl^TAi:^ 


Nope,” decisively. We can fix that. Kid can’t 
travel anyway. Might kill him. We’ll leave him lay 
here and git better if he can. More’n that. I’m goin’ 
to send that Brackett woman’s doctor up here to tend 
to him. Charge the bill up to expenses. The State 
owes him that much, anyway. Now, sister, let’s have 
a look at him.” 

As Ward stooped over the unconscious youth the 
girl drew back in instinctive distrust, one hand slipping 
toward the gim she had captured from Snake. The 
man gave her a look half-amused, half-warning. 
Douglas spoke soothingly. 

“ It’s all right, Marion. Maybe you didn’t notice 
what was said just now. Steve’s cleared, and Ward 
here is going to send in a doctor. These fellows are 
leaving—and so am I. Steve will be well soon, and 
then you two can get married, and—^and—everything’s 
all right.” 

Despite himself, his last words sounded hollow. He 
turned his gaze to the wan face of the wolf-boy, 
sombrely contemplating the sunken cheeks, the deep- 
rimmed eyes, all the painfully apparent ravages of 
privation and sickness. He did not observe the sudden 
amazement in the three other faces, which turned 
quickly to his; nor the ensuing tiny tremble of the 
girl’s lips. 

Huh ? These two git- Gee, I thought- 

Huh! ” muttered Bill, blankly looking from boy 
to girl and then back at Hampton. Ward, too, 
stared; then, tongue in cheek, looked down again at 
Steve. 




OUT OF THE PAST 313 

** Git married ? Me and Steve ? ” breathed Marion. 
“ And you—you're goin'- ” 

A moan from the floor, a shudder of the ragged 
body and a trembling of the hands around the gun, 
cut her short and drew the attention of all. The pale 
lips twitched; the eyes opened, steadied on Ward’s 
face. The jaw clicked shut. Steve struggled to 
rise. 

“ All right, lad,” Ward said kindly. “We don’t 
want you. Take it easy. You’re in the clear, and 
Sanders is croaked, and we’re goin’ out and leave you. 
Now you’d better git to bed. Hampton, want to put 
your blankets around him? And shut that back win¬ 
dow of yours. We left it open-” 

“ That’s how you got in ? ” 

“ Sure. We spotted that easy-slidin’ window days 
ago—made a little call here and looked things over 
again, just for luck. I don’t aim to overlook anything 
when I’m on a job. So to-night when we heard that 
cannon go off we took it on the run, looked in here 
and saw you had got Sanders cornered, and eased our¬ 
selves in by that window to git an earful of what you 
were raggin’ about. It helps a lot sometimes to hear 

things without lettin’ folks know- Huh ? What’s 

that, kid ? ” 

Steve was trying to break in. Now he gasped: 

“ Leave me lay. Go look out for mom. Snake, he 
mauled her. He went there—’fore he come here. I 
found her all-” 

Marion sprang up with a cry. 

“ Mom? Snake hurt her? ” 






314 


CAT-O^-MOUNTAIU 


“ Yuh—he mauled her awful. She told me—take 
the gun and—see if ye was here. I put her on the 
bed—and I come a-runnin’. She’s hurt bad. Git to 
her.” 

Douglas and Bill tensed. Ward straightened with a 
snap. 

“ More dirty work! ” growled Ward, with a hard 
look at the dead man beyond. “ We’d all better git up 
there. Say, Miss Oaks! How about bringin’ this 
Steve to your house? This ain’t a good place for 
him.” 

“ Oh, bring him, bring him! Poor mom! I’m 
a-goin’! ” 

She sped into the night. Ward moved swiftly after 
her. 

“ Bill, you and Hampton fetch him along,” he com¬ 
manded. And he, too, was lost in the darkness. 

Hastily Douglas gathered his blankets and threw 
them around Steve, who doggedly strove to stand on 
his own legs but could not. Deprived now of the 
vengeful force which had sustained him so long, he 
was utterly without strength. But his wasted frame 
was no burden at all to the muscles of the two strong 
men aiding him. And a moment later, bundled in 
warm woven wool, he was being borne rapidly along 
the road, his tortured chest enwrapped in the bulging 
arms of the man who had remorselessly hunted him, 
his legs upheld by the tall furriner ” who had stood 
by him ever since his return from prison walls. Be¬ 
fore the three, the white beam of the gas lamp lit up 
the road. Behind, stiffening in the blackness of the 


OUT OF THE PAST 


315 


eerie house where at last he had entrapped himself, 
lay the creature whose venom would never more men¬ 
ace the dwellers in the Traps. 

At the door of the Oaks house Ward met them. 
His face was grave. 

“ Put him on this here cot,” he quietly directed. 
“ Fve got the fire goin' and some water on.” Lower¬ 
ing his voice and nodding toward an inner room where 
an oil lamp shone feebly, he added: ‘‘She's in there. 
Can’t do anything for her. She’s all busted up inside. 
Hemorrhages. She won’t last till daybreak.” 

“Talkin’ any?” hoarsely whispered Bill. 

“ Nope. Just holdin’ the girl’s hand. She might say 
somethin’ later on. We’ll stick around.” 

They lowered Steve to a rickety sofa, opened the 
blanket-roll encasing him, and bared his ridge-ribbed 
chest. Ward tiptoed about and found mustard and 
cloths. Bill, clumsily anxious to do something but 
ignorant of how to go about it, fidgeted a moment and 
then appointed himself guardian of the fire. Steve, 
lips pressed together, lay still, moving only his eyes, 
which went back and forth between Douglas and the 
doorway of the inner room. The blond man nodded 
and stole to the portal. 

Within, he saw two faces: one thin, dark, pillowed 
in a worn old bed—a face gray-white beneath its 
sw'arthiness; the other fair, rounded, but white and 
set, leaning close. Across the mouth of the sufferer 
lay a towel blotched with red stains, and from the 
headboard another hung ready. The black-browed 
eyes were closed, and across the forehead above them 


316 


CAT-O’-MOUNTAIN 


softly stroked gentle tapering fingers. On the shabby 
counterpane a work-worn old hand and a shapely 
young one were joined. Somewhere a cheap clock 
ticked as if hurrying along the last hours of the in¬ 
jured woman’s life. That, and difficult breathing, 
were the only sounds. 

Marion’s head turned, and for a moment her grief- 
stricken eyes dwelt on the blue ones at the doorway. 
Then they returned to the face on the pillow. Douglas 
withdrew. In that straight look he had found con¬ 
firmation of what his own gaze and Ward’s laconic 
words had told him. 

He shook his head soberly at Steve and at the other 
two, watching him. The boy’s mouth set harder; but 
he said nothing. Ward went on making a hot poultice. 
Bill shifted his feet and awkwardly fed another stick * 
into the stove. 

“ I don’t quite git it,” Ward mused in an under¬ 
tone, as the three gathered around Steve. “ What 
would Sanders beat her up for ? ” 

“ For the same reason that he would kill Lou Brack¬ 
ett and shoot at me,” Douglas explained. “ It all fits 
in together. The reason is—Marion.” 

Wanted her, you mean? ” 

“ Exactly. He couldn’t have her and Lou too, so 
he got rid of Lou. He threw her off the Wall be¬ 
cause that would look like an accident. A snake-bite 
wouldn’t do, because folks would be too suspicious, 
especially since snakes are denning up now. Any 
other form of murder, too, would look bad. A fall 
off the Wall would be the most natural thing. 


OVT OF TEE PA^T 


317 


" Mrs. Oaks, here, hated Sanders, and he knew it. 
From what Steve tells us—that she told him to leave 
her and see if Marion was at my house—Sanders must 
have come here determined to drag the girl away to a 
hole in the rocks where he's been hiding lately. She 
probably cussed him out—maybe threatened him with 
the gun—and he thought Marion was here. So he 
jumped on her, pounded her like the murderous brute 
he was, searched the house, and then came to my 
place; saw us in there, and jumped in to finish me and 
grab her before she could get to my gun." 

** Sounds reasonable," Ward nodded, drawing 
Steve's shirt together over the deftly arranged plaster. 
“ He sure was a hard guy. Well, there's no more to 
do now but wait. You git to sleep, lad, if you can. 
I'm goin' out for a little smoke.” 

He passed to the bedroom doorway, looked in, then 
quietly opened and closed the outer door. A minute 
later, outside a window, showed the flare of a match 
and the glow of a pipe. 

Time dragged past. Steve lay silent. Bill and 
Douglas sat wordless. Ward returned, found some 
cold biscuit and butter, made a big pot of coffee, 
passed them around. From time to time one or an¬ 
other of them stepped to the door and looked in on 
the girl keeping her grim vigil; then tiptoed back and 
resumed his seat. 

Hour after hour crawled along, measured only by 
the unfeeling tick of that cheap clock, which had no 
hour-bell. Steve slept. Bill dozed, sprawling in his 
chair. Ward and Hampton nursed empty pipes. 


318 CA T-O^’MO UN TAIN 

From the room beyond came occasional choking noises, 
but no voice. 

Then, low but penetrating, sounded a call for aid. 

“ Douglas! Come help me ! ” 

In six strides Douglas was beside Marion, who was 
supporting the older woman’s bony shoulders in her 
arms. The dark eyes were open now, and the red- 
dyed mouth was gasping for breath. 

“ She wants to be lifted,” added the girl. I 
can do it, but I might shake her. Jest raise her 
easy.” 

With a smooth lift he set Eliza against the pillows 
which Marion erected at her back. One glance into 
the ashy face and the glassy eyes told him that the end 
was close at hand. 

For a minute or two the dying woman looked fixedly 
at him. She seemed gathering her strength. Her gaze 
went to Marion. Then it centered again on Hampton’s 
strong, clean face. 

I’m a-goin’,” she breathed. “ Snake done it. Did 
ye—git him ? ” 

“ Steve got him,” he answered. “ Got him with 
Nat’s gun. Both barrels. He owned up first, though, 
that Steve didn’t burn out the Bumps. Steve goes 
free. Everything’s all right. Don’t talk.” 

A wild light filled the fixed eyes. A haggard smile 
crooked the thin lips. 

'' Steve done it! Nat’s gun! That’s good! Awful 
good! ” 

A sudden cough and a fresh red flow stopped her. 
Then, instead of drooping back, she seemed to 


OUT OF THE PA8T 319 

straighten and strengthen. Her breath came short, but 
more easily. 

I got to talk. Don’t hender me. I ain’t got much 
time. I got to tell ye—’fore I go. Marry—ain’t ourn.” 

Douglas started. 

“Not yours ? Not your daughter ? ” 

“ No. I never had no—^young ’uns of my own. We 
got Marryin—three year old. Her pop was—a painter 
feller. From Noo York. Name was Dyke. 

“ He come into here—fourteen year ago—^paint pic¬ 
tures. Wife had got drownded—sailboat sunk into 
ocean—nigh Noo York, he—told us. He was awful 
grievious ’bout it. Come up here to paint an’—git over 
it. Brought his little gal—Marryin—all he had left— 
little rosy gal—purty as a angel. 

“ We was more ’spectable then. Nat he worked— 
didn’t drink much—hunted an’ trapped—made a good 
livin’. Dyke wanted board with us. We let him. He 
went paintin’—up ’long the crick—up onto Minne- 
wasky—diff’rent places. Little Marryin stayed here 
mostly—’count o’ snakes—daddy was scairt she’d git 
—bit if she went ’long o’ him. 

“ Dyke was good feller but—quick-tempered—git 
fightin’ mad like a shot. Him an’ Nat—they had two- 
three spats. One time they went huntin’. Nat come 
home ’lone. Said Dyke fell offen Dickabar. Kilt. 

“ We got him outen—the rocks. Buried him out 
back. Nat got drinkin’—talkin’ into his sleep—let out 
that him an’ Dyke fit ’bout suthin’. Nat busted liis 
neck. When he see what he—done, he throwed him 
—offen Dickabar to look like—he fell by—hisself. 



320 




“ 'Course I never told. Nat he -was my man. Snake 
Sanders, he—knowed or 'spicioned—I dunno how— 
but he kep’ Nat scairt. Made Nat do—dirty work. 
But he never—told on him. Nor I wouldn’t—tell ye 
now but—Nat he’s gone—can’t nobody hurt him now. 
I’m a-goin’ too—Marry she’ll be ’lone—'ceptin’ for 
Steve an’—you. One o’ ye’s got to—look out for her.” 

She gasped, struggled up straighter, fought off the 
tightening clasp of Death. Her dimming eyes traveled 
about the blur of hovering faces. Except Steve, asleep 
outside, all in the house now were clustered around the 
bed. 

“ Ye—Hampton—I been mad at ye—^but—^ye come 
from outside—like Marry’s pop. Marry she—b’longs 
outside too. Her folks was quality—she warn’t horned 
into—Traps. She’d oughter go out. 

“ Steve an’ her, they—growed up like brother an’— 
sister. They knowed they warn’t—but they been the 
same. Steve got livin’ with us—I dunno jest when— 
he was little feller—he jest come an’ stayed. They 
growed—like I said. He’s good boy but—he ain’t 
fitten to—take care o’ Marry. Too wild—too young— 
he ain’t got a stiddy head—ye know what I—mean. 
I’d go easier to know she was—took care of by— 
strong man that knowed things.” 

She strove to make out the expression on the face of 
the blond blur which was Hampton. She could not. 
But to her failing ears came a deep-toned, solemn 
promise. 

“ I will take care of her. As if she were my own 
sister.” 


OUT OF THE PAST 


321 


Another faint smile fluttered and faded. The black 
head sank back wearily. Once more the stiffening lips 
moved. 

“ Marry gal—I might of—done better—^by ye. I 
cussed ye—knocked ye round—but I kep’ ye—safe. 
Snake nor no other—varmint never—got ye. I done 
the—best I—knowed how. I—I’m—a-goin’ —^—” 

A quiver ran from breast to lips. The arms went 
limp. The body relaxed. 

Nigger Nat’s woman—^primitive product of harsh 
hills, hard-bitten, hard-spoken, unmannered and un¬ 
lovely, yet loyal to the last to her man and the waifs 
whom she had taken to her craggy heart—had laid 
down the burden of life and passed on. 


I 



CHAPTER XXX 


THE CALL OF THE SOUTH 

Brilliant morning sunlight flooded the dingy 
kitchen-dining-living-room of the Oaks house. Late 
though the season was, the southward-rising sun now 
lit up the interior more clearly than it ever had in mid¬ 
summer; for its slanting rays, instead of sinking into 
green ground and foliage, now ricocheted upward 
from a thin earth-blanket of snow. 

That snow was two days old, and the latest of three 
light falls which had come since the night when Snake 
Sanders and his last victim passed out. The other two 
had speedily melted, and even this one had shrunk 
noticeably in an ensuing thaw. But to-day the air 
was keen and the white coverlet hard. 

Snow and cold, however, meant little to the eight 
gathered in that room. In the cheery warmth radi¬ 
ating from the mud-colored old stove four of them 
crouched or lay in the sleepy contentment of full 
stomachs, while the other four sat pensively on chairs 
or sofa. The floor-hugging contingent comprised the 
Oaks felines—Spit and Spat and Fit and Fat. The 
folks above them were Marion, Steve, Douglas, and 
Uncle Eb. 

Beside the outer door stood two guns—one, an old, 

322 


THE CALL OF THE SOUTH 


323 


rust-pitted muzzle-loader; the other a clean, graceful 
hammerless—and a blanket pack, to which a smaller 
bundle had been lightly corded. To a contemplative 
eye those insensate things would have told a story of 
double trust: that, as the guns stood side by side, so 
would their owners stand shoulder to shoulder; and 
that the man who presently would carry that pack 
would bear also the light burden of a woman who had 
faith in him—for that small package was unmistak¬ 
ably a thin dress, within which probably were wrapped 
a few other articles of clothing. 

“ Wal,’' barked Uncle Eb, shattering a thoughtful 
silence, “ ye might say this was the endin' an’ the 
beginnin’. Nat an’ ’Lizy an’ Snake an’ Lou are all 
into their gi'aves, an’ them detective fellers are so long 
gone I ’most forgot they ever was into here, an’ Steve’s 
back onto his legs, an’ Marry an’ Hammerless are 
a-goin’ out. An’ that’s the endin’. But then ag’in, 
Steve’s a-comin’ to live ’long o’ me, an’ if old Ninety- 
Nine’s Mine ain’t lost ag’in by next spring we’ll see 
what we can make outen it; an’ Marry’s a-startin’ into 
that thar art-school ye told about, Hamp; an’ ye say 
ye’re a-goin’ to quit driftin’ round an' git into a reg’lar 
business down to the city—sellin’ bonds, did ye say? 
An’ so that’s the beginnin’. Now all I’m bothered 
’bout is how I’m a-goin’ to keep these cats to my 
house. They’ll run right back here, I bet ye.” 

When they see ther’ ain’t nothin’ to eat here they’ll 
come a-scootin’ up the hill ag’in, don’t worry,” pre¬ 
dicted Steve, a saturnine smile crooking his pale mouth. 

Ther’ won’t be nobody livin’ into here, ’less’n Marry 


324 


CATO^-MOV:^^TAi:t^ 


gits homesick an’ wants to come back. Anybody 
else that tries movin’ in will move out ag’in quick’s 
I can git to him. Marry, don’t ye kind o’ hate to 
go?” 

** I—dunno,” she slowly answered. " It’s the onliest 
home I ever knowed, but—but it ain’t the same now. 
No! I—I couldn't live here! Now that I know who 
my real daddy was, and—and I’ve got a chance to 
draw real pictures and—and he somebody ’sides ‘ Nig¬ 
ger Nat’s girl’ and ‘that red-headed catamount’ and 
all-” 

She paused, her eyes shining as the misty portal of 
Dreams swung back and gave her a vision of what 
lay beyond. The three men nodded; Douglas under- 
standingly, Uncle Eb decisively, Steve sombrely. 

“ That’s right,” Douglas agreed. “ You’ve been un¬ 
derground long enough, and now you must blossom 
out into the sun. It’s your daddy’s blood that has 
driven you to draw and dream, and he’d tell you now 
to go out and develop your talent That’s his heritage 
to you—that urge to draw—and you owe it to him to 
make something of it It means work^ but it’s worth 
while.” 

” Oh, I can work—^won’t I work, though! And— 
and some day I’m cornin’ back up here and draw that 
hole in the crick that’s bothered me so long—and paint 
it, too—and make it right! ” 

Her slender fingers closed and her cheeks flushed in 
joyous enthusiasm. Steve eyed her soberly, then 
nodded again. 

“ Yas, tha’s right, I reckon,” he sighed. “ It’s 




THE CALL CF TEE SOUTH 


325 


a-goin' to be awful lonesome ’thout ye. Marry gal, but 

mebbe ye won’t forgit us. I—I-He stopped 

abruptly and gulped. 

“ Why—^why, Stevie! ” She sprang up and stroked 
his hair, I won’t never forgit you, never! You’ve 
always been good to me—stood up for me like a real 
brother many’s the time—it ’most broke my heart when 
they sent you away. And when the noo-mony got you 
jest lately I-” 

“ Don’t say no more,” he broke in huskily. " Ye’ve 
stood up for me too, an* ye pulled me through that 
noo-mony, an’ I couldn’t ask no more. But I got to 
tell ye, Marry—I ain’t ’shamed to say it right out front 
of everybody—I got thinkin’ mebbe sometime we might 
—might git married, all reg’lar, with a ring Ein’ every¬ 
thin’. I hadn’t no right to, but I couldn’t help it. But 
then I see it wam’t no use. I done a lot o’ thinkin’, 
up thar into my hole into the ground, an’ I could see 
plain ye was ’way over my head.” 

His teeth set, and the hard lines around his mouth 
deepened. But he drove himself on. 

An’ I see the kind of a feller ye’d oughter have was 
like Hamp, here. An* that’s mostly why I resked it to 
put that note under yer door, Hamp, the night Nat 
come-” 

” What 1 Was it you who did that ? ” exclaimed 
Douglas. 

“ Me. Snake an’ Nat was right close by my hole, 
never knowin* I was into it, an’ Snake was edgin’ Nat 
on to go down an’ do for ye. When they was gone I 
wrote that warnin’ an’ snuck down ’long Dickabar an’ 





326 


CAT^O^-MOUHTAIl^ 


left it for ye. I owed ye a good turn anyways, but I 
done it for Marry more'n for you.'' 

A moment Douglas sat, realizing what the fugitive 
had risked in thus issuing from his covert and thread¬ 
ing a mile of detective-haunted forest. Then he 
reached out and grasped the bony hand of the con¬ 
valescent. 

“ You’re a man!" he declared. 

“ I aim to be," said Steve, with another gulp. 

A short, awkward silence followed. Marion, sober¬ 
faced, tenderly stroked the shaggy black hair until 
Steve dodged, as if the caress were becoming torment. 
Uncle Eb glared fixedly at one of the cats. Douglas 
looked at all three; then arose as if reaching a de¬ 
termination. 

“ This isn't the way I'd thought of it, but it's as 
good as any," he said quietly. “ I had intended first, 
Marion, to take you to an elderly friend of mine in 
town—Mrs. Wright, who takes a keen interest in 
young artists and who undoubtedly would remember 
your father. She’s a dear old soul, and I know she’d 
be only too glad to make every^thing easy for you; 
she's a patroness of that school I spoke of, and besides 
that she could coach you on all those little things a 
lady of her type knows so well—speech and manners 
and clothes and the other points you'll have to learn in 
order to ‘ be somebody,' as you say. And I’d rustle a 
job down in the financial district and keep my promise 
to your mother—to look out for you as if you were 
my sister. And when you’d had time to see how you 
liked the change, and to find out what the city 


THE CALL OF THE SOUTH 32T 

boys looked like, and so on—then Td ask you a ques¬ 
tion. 

“ I wanted to give you a fair chance-—not to jump 
this question at you before you fairly got your eyes 
open to this new world of yours. But circumstances 
alter cases. I’ll take you to Mrs. Wright just the 
same, but I’m going to ask the question now instead of 
later. Like Steve, I’m not afraid to say it right out 
in front of everybody. What’s more, Steve has the 
right to know what’s what. And-” 

He paused. The wide gray eyes dwelt unwaveringly 
on his. So did the old steel-blue eyes and the young 
brown ones. 

The first time we met,” he went on, with a little 
smile, you said you were ‘ Marry for short.’ I’m 
asking you if you’ll make it' marry for good.’ If so, 
we’ll hunt up a parson when we tramp into New 
Paltz, and go down the river as Mr. and Mrs. Hamp¬ 
ton.” 

Steadfastly she regarded him a moment longer. 
Steve and Uncle Eb sat breathless. 

“ Let me ask you somethin’,” she returned. If 
Steve had got sent back down-river you’d never have 
asked me this, would you ? ” 

“ Why—if I still thought you and he were sweet¬ 
hearts—probably not. It wouldn’t be fair to either of 
you.” 

“ Was that what you meant when you spoke ’bout 
Steve—that day up the crick ? ” 

“ Certainly. What did you think?” 

“ I thought all ’long you—didn’t want to git too 



328 


€AT^O’-MOU:tilTAIN 


thick with a girl that was a—a half sister to a feller 
that had been into the pen! That you couldn't have 
enough respect for a girl like that to—to—you know. 
And it—kind of hurt." 

** Good Lord! I never even knew you two were 
brought up under the same roof, until the night your 
mother—that is, 'Liza Oaks—died. If I had, maybe 
I’d have asked sooner!" 

The cool gray eyes grew warm. The red lips curved 
in a dimpling smile. But his question remained un¬ 
answered. Her gaze went to the waiting packs and 
guns. Outside, a horse stamped impatiently. 

“ Ain't it about time to be goin' ? " she asked de¬ 
murely. ** That hoss of Uncle Eb's is gittin' restless. 
Uncle Eb, you'd better git the cats into the bags." 

“ But ye ain't told Hamp-" Steve protested. 

“ I know it, foolish! And I ain't goin' to tell him 
till I git ready. It might be five minutes, or mebbe 
five years, he’ll have to wait; and till he knows you 
won't know either. And that's all of that 1" 

Uncle Eb chuckled. Douglas spread his hands in 
resignation. Steve glowered, then half grinned. 

“ Might a-knowed it," he muttered. Sassy as a 
red squir'l, ain’t ye? Ye won’t never git no better." 

And with that the question was dropped. Ensued 
a scramble, ending in the confinement in burlap sacks 
of four spitting, spatting felines; a donning of hats 
and coats, a closing up of stove-draughts, and a wobbly 
progress by Steve to Uncle Eb's waiting wagon. There 
he was enwrapped in a huge quilt. Uncle Eb clam¬ 
bered in and encased his legs in the horse-blanket. 



THE CALL OF THE SOUTH 329 


The horse started at once. And up the road slowly 
traveled the old man and his new foster-son, with dead 
Nigger Nat’s muzzle-loader leaning stark and grim 
between them. 

Behind them, swinging easily along the frozen road, 
walked the man and the maid, their faces reddening 
under the sharp kiss of the wintry air. Once, and 
once only, they paused to glance back at the abandoned 
house. Then they trudged on, silent. 

At length the wagon stopped. The Clove road had 
ended, and the horse now stood in the true Traps road, 
heading westward. Up that way waited Uncle Eb’s 
home. Eastward opened the Gap, and beyond lay 
the great Outside. This was the parting of the 
ways. 

And here Steve spoke out, man to man. 

Hamp, I’m a-trustin’ ye. But a feller never knows. 
If ever Marry should come a-crawlin’ back into here, 
sorry an’ shamed, then look out! I’ll be a-comin’ 
after ye wuss’n I ever went after Snake, an’ I’ll come 
a-shootin’. Tha’s all. Good luck to the both o’ ye.” 

‘‘ You won’t be coming after me, lad,” Douglas an¬ 
swered steadily. We’ll both be coming back to see 
you in the spring, whether Marion’s name then is Dyke 
or Hampton. And I’m leaving with you, as a pledge 
and a present—this.” 

Into the space between the two riders he swung his 
shotgun. Then he gripped Steve’s hand and stepped 
back. The youth stared at his new gun as if the 
heavens had opened before him. Even when Marion 
climbed up and kissed him farewell he seemed dazed 


330 


CAT-O’-MOUNTAIN 


by the wonder of actually possessing such a weapon. 
Uncle Eb grinned dryly and gave Douglas an approv¬ 
ing nod. 

The old man’s farewell was characteristically short. 
He gave each a straight look, a lift of the walrus 
mustache, a paralyzing handshake. Then- 

“ Luck to ye! G’yapalong! ” 

The wagon rolled away. 

With a sigh and a smile, Douglas and Marion turned 
their faces eastward. Steadily they swung along the 
hummocky track, climbing upward, ever upward, by 
easy grade or steep slant, toward the Gap a mile away. 
From time to time they glanced at each other, but 
they spoke no word. The only sounds were the flap¬ 
ping of frozen leaves still adhering to cold boughs, the 
crunch of snow under heel, the occasional bay of a 
far-off hound 

So they came to the Jaws of the Traps, where the 
road sneaked between towering ledges and then pitched 
down in swift-dropping zigzags to the low hills of the 
Beyond. Out before them stretched a snowy pano¬ 
rama through which, ^black and slow, meandered the 
serpentine Wallkill. Away to the east, hidden behind 
intervening hills, flowed the wide Hudson. Far to the 
south, that river rolled past the vast city of New 
York, to be swallowed by the waiting ocean. But 
much nearer—only six miles off—stood out clearly a 
little town where lived clergymen, and where a wed¬ 
ding ring could be bought; the first town on their out¬ 
ward way: New Paltz. 

There between the crags they halted, poising on the 



THE CALL OF THE SOUTH 331 

brink between the Traps and the World, the hard old 
life and the nebulous new. Still they said nothing. 
His gaze dwelt on her, and hers on that town. Some¬ 
thing counseled him to keep silence. 

Then into the stillness came a sound from the north: 
a sound new to the man: a yapping confusion of noise 
suggesting the breathless chorus of a pack of hard- 
running dogs. It grew in volume until it became like 
the strident creak and groan of many rickety, unoiled 
wagons, full of discordant undertones and overnotes. 
Yet it was not on the ground, but in the air, some¬ 
where beyond the northern cliff which blocked the 
view. 

“ Geese! ’’ cried Marion. “ I wondered why we 
hadn’t heard some. They’re late. But they’re goin’ 
fast now. The lakes up north are froze, and winter’s 
cornin’ close. There they are! ” 

High up, a long wedge slid across the sky. Its lines 
wavered, bent, but never broke. Along them winked 
an unceasing quiver of strong-beating wings; from 
them fell the clamorous medley of voices old and 
young, deep and shrill. Straight as their wild in¬ 
stinct could guide them, straight as the man and the 
maiden below would speed down the river when 
they should reach the railroad, the birds were flying 
south. 

“ Coin’ south—and so are we,” the girl softly 
echoed his own thought. And they turned their eyes 
again to the roofs six miles away. 

‘‘Marion—dear—what is it to be?” he asked. 
“ Let’s decide.” 


332 


CAT^O’^MOVNTAm 


A deeper color flowed into her cheeks, a roguish 
twinkle into her eyes. Half shyly, she looked up at 
him. 

‘‘ Ain^t you scairt to marry a red-headed cata¬ 
mount?” she demanded. “They’re awful critters to 
git along with.” 

“ I never married one yet, but I’m not scared,” he 
smiled. “ I’ve held my own with every one I’ve met 
so far.” 

Under the curving brows flamed a daring, tantaliz¬ 
ing light. 

“ Seems to me you—you ain’t holdin’ your own right 
now,” she teased. 

He blinked. Then light shot over his face. One 
stride, and his arms were around her. 

“ Who says I’m not ? ” he challenged. 

“ That’s—that's better! ** 

Her arms clasped tight around his neck. Her lips 
rose, tremulous, questing, waiting. His head dropped, 
and his embrace tightened. And then between the 
crusted crags there stood no longer a girl of the hills 
and a man from outside. Lip to lip, heart to heart, 
soul to soul—the twain had become one. 

After a time his head lifted. Passive, clinging, 
trembling, she lay back in his arms. 

“ Are you—sure we can find a —a parson down to 
Paltz ? ” she whispered. 

He laughed, and drew her up to him again. Yield¬ 
ing lips stopped his breath, and the laugh died. But 
faintly from the south sounded an echo of his tender 
mirth—a bubbling, gabbling sound which in turn died 


THE GALL OF THE SOUTH 333 

out and was gone: the honking hilarity of the sharp- 
eyed wild geese. 


THE END 


























V 


JUN 0 1^23 





























































































